A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,9
mouth smacked open and shut. A memory flashed through Elethor's mind, a vision of shriveled beings of the Abyss, sucking the air and smacking their gums.
Elethor's head spun. He knelt by the trembling man and touched his shoulder. Leras cowered and wailed.
"Please," he begged, "please don't touch me, please don't hurt me. No more. No more."
Lyana stood above them. She raised her head and coned her palm around her mouth.
"Piri!" she cried. "Piri, we need you and your healers! Bring silverweed!"
Elethor looked down at the trembling man. Burn marks stretched across his chest. They had tortured him—burned him, broken his teeth, maybe broken his mind. Bile rose in Elethor's throat, thick with guilt.
I sent him south. I sent him to this.
"Nobody will hurt you here, Leras," he said softly. "You are safe here. You are home. You are home. We will heal you."
Leras stared with wild, red-rimmed eyes. He reached up and clasped Elethor's cloak, fingers bony and digging. His breath trembled and his ribs rose and fell like twigs upon a stream.
"You… you must flee!" he said, voice slurred with pain. "You cannot fly south. You cannot. She… she is freeing the nephilim, my king. The… stars!" Tears rolled down his cheeks. "Flee, King Elethor! Take these people and flee north—as far as you can—and never return."
Feet stomped through the crowd, and Piri Healer came walking forward, clad in the white robes of her order. With Mother Adia fallen and the Temple destroyed, young Piri had become the closest thing Requiem had to a new High Priestess. Her dark braids were stern, her eyes sterner. Behind her trailed her pupils, a dozen young women in white silks, baskets of herbs and bandages in their hands. Piri knelt beside the wounded Leras, reached into her robes for a bottle of silverweed, and broke the wax seal with her thumb.
"Drink," she said, holding the bottle forward. "Drink and you will sleep and heal."
Elethor raised his hand, blocking the bottle from reaching the wounded man.
"Wait, Piri," he said softly. He kept his voice steady, but his insides roiled.
The young healer's eyes flashed. "My king! I—"
"Wait." His voice was harsh. He looked back at the trembling, wounded man. "Does Solina fly north? What do you know? Speak, Leras. Tell me everything."
The man's raw fingers groped at Elethor's armor, smearing blood. His eyes widened and his body shook.
"She is sending men to fetch the key. The key from…" He coughed and shook for a moment, then spoke in sobs. "From the tower! I saw the bodies. Stars, the bodies that fell from the tower. Cut, mangled, twisted. She wanted to send me in too. She pulled me from the dungeon. She wanted me inside. Please. Please! I shifted. I flew. I came here. She will free them!" His voice rose to hoarse, anguished shouts. "She will find the key and she will unlock the Iron Door. The nephilim will fly. You cannot fight them. You must flee! Fly north, King Elethor. Fly north. Never return!"
Leras's tears flowed, and sobs racked his body, and Elethor only held the man, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. His fear pulsed through his chest, and he felt the blood leave his face.
Herself pale, Piri poured the silverweed into the man's mouth, but he sputtered, unable to swallow. He hacked and laughed and wept.
"Fly," he whispered, "and never return."
His eyes rolled back, and he fell limp in Elethor's arms.
"Leras!" Piri cried. She pulled him from Elethor's arms, laid him upon the ground, and tried to revive him. She pounded his chest, poured more silverweed into his mouth, and shook him, but he would not wake. He lay with a smile—a last smile of peace—and staring eyes.
The people of Requiem stood all around, whispering to one another. Many trembled. Elethor rose to his feet and turned toward them.
"You have nothing to fear!" he called out. "Vir Requis, return to your tents and caves. You are safe here. I promise you this. You are safe."
Yet as the crowd dispersed, Elethor heard them whisper, and a few wept. As Elethor stood above the body, he realized that he had drawn his sword. Cold sweat drenched him and his breath quickened.
Lyana looked at him, eyes wide, her own hand around her sword's hilt.
"He spoke of the nephilim," she whispered. Her face was ghostly white. "The Fallen Ones. I've heard of them, Elethor." She spun and began walking through the forest. "Come. I will show you. Stars save us if he spoke truth."