A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,97
claw scraped against it before the beast crashed against the beach below. Lyana soared and blew more flames. More nephilim fell before her. Claws and teeth shone everywhere.
Stars damn it! Lyana thought. With Wila on her back, she could barely fly properly. She could not soar straight up, or spin, or whisk like a bee between the swarming enemies; Wila would fall. Lyana gritted her teeth and flew onward, lashing her claws and blowing her flames as Wila shot arrows.
"Crash through them!" Elethor roared somewhere above her. "Past those cliffs—land above them!"
Lyana looked up, seeking her husband. The sky was burning. Dragons, salvanae, and griffins flew everywhere, crisscrossing and scattering and regrouping and all roaring their cries. Nephilim crashed against them—some of the beasts swung curved, rusted blades—and blood splattered. Bursts of dragonfire exploded. When howls sounded in the south, Lyana looked to see new combatants arriving: hordes of burly wyverns blowing acid and phoenixes crackling with fire. They too crashed into the battle. The sands below turned red with blood. Bodies rained and piled up and drifted into the sea. Lyana couldn't even see the sky, only beasts and men screaming and killing.
This should not have happened, Lyana thought in a daze. Her eyes blurred. They knew. They were waiting for us. They are too many.
For an instant Lyana froze, barely able to fly, barely able to breathe. She had fought many battles. She had slain Tirans in the Phoenix War when they first invaded her land. She had walked through the Abyss and fought its creatures. She had defended Nova Vita even as it crumbled under wyvern acid. She had fought hordes of nephilim above cities and temples. And yet this… Lyana had never seen a battle like this. Hundreds of thousands of creatures flew and died here, spreading for a league around. To call this a battle, she thought, diminished its magnitude; here was a great song of blood and flame and carnage.
I never knew, she thought, eyes stinging. I never imagined. We should have run. We should have hidden. We will burn the world from this place.
"Lyana!" Elethor shouted. He dived toward her, blew fire over her shoulder, and a nephil shrieked behind her.
She snarled. She soared. She fought.
The battle raged through the night—a night of dragon wings and fire and rot. The dead covered the beaches and cliffs. They bobbed upon the water like thousands of fallen leaves. When dawn rose, it rose upon a world drenched in blood. When the battle finally ended, there were no songs of victory: there was only weeping, screaming, and everywhere the dead and wounded.
Lyana landed upon the cliffs of Tiranor. She shook so badly Wila nearly fell off her back. When the woman dismounted, Lyana shifted into human form and stood trembling.
Stars save us, she thought, looking over the beaches below.
"We won," Wila whispered. Blood splattered the soldier's pale face, and she clutched an arm that still sizzled with acid.
"Nobody won this slaughter," Lyana replied and leaned against her, so weary she could barely stand.
The hosts of the enemy lay dead, but so many of their own lay among them. Tens of thousands of corpses covered the beaches: piles of nephilim bustling with gulls and crabs, men and women slashed with claws and burnt with fire, and salvanae and griffins torn apart.
Among the dead, thousands of wounded screamed and wept and begged. Men clutched at stumps or spilling entrails, calling for their mothers. Young women—torn from their homes into a war their brothers could no longer fight alone—lay burnt and swollen and screaming. Healers in white robes rushed among them, trudging through puddles of blood, but there were so many hurt, so many dying; every moment, another screaming warrior fell silent, voice forever lost.
Elethor landed beside Lyana, brass scales charred and chipped. He shifted into human form. Blood splattered his armor and sweat dampened his hair. He took Lyana's hand and they stood together, gazing down upon the landscape of death.
ELETHOR
He walked along the beach, blood sluicing around his boots. The dead rose in hills around him, stinking under the pounding sun. Crows and gulls flew everywhere, picking at the flesh. Nephilim lay broken and burnt, their foul innards leaking from their mouths. Griffins and salvanae lay in heaps. Men and women too lay dead, torn apart into mere hints of humanity.
"Elethor," Lyana said softly at his side. "Are you sure?"
He nodded. "We'll find one here."
They kept walking—him, Lyana, and a dozen of their men. The tide was