Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,11

tongue, which the weredragons spoke in the old days, it was simply called valber, which is their word for poison."

"It kills weredragons," Mirum said, hating the taste of that word on her lips. Weredragons. A foul word. The name of monsters.

Dies Irae shook his head. "Kills them? Oh no, my dear. It takes more than a herb to kill beasts of such evil. It sickens them. Burns them. When they are in human form, it reveals the monstrosity that lies within them, their reptilian blood. But no, sweetness, it does not kill them." He raised his iron fist. The sun finally peeked from the clouds, and the mace head glittered. Dies Irae's thin lips smiled. "This kills them."

So swiftly Mirum gasped, Dies Irae swung his iron arm. The mace head hit a rotted chest, showering splinters of wood. Mirum bit her lip, instinctively reaching for her sword, but Lord Molok grabbed her arm with a gauntleted hand, and she could not draw her blade.

Mirum took a ragged breath. Nothing but some old arrowheads, flasks of oil, and rope fell from the shattered chest.

Mirum saw two more chests, both of rotting and cracked wood, and five barrels. Which one hid Kyrie? Fly, Kyrie, she thought feverishly, trying to transfer her thoughts to him as by magic. The time to fly has come. Escape!

Dies Irae smirked and approached a barrel. Now that the clouds had parted, he truly looked like a seraph, his armor so bright it hurt Mirum's eyes, the jeweled griffin on his breastplate shining like stars. The garnets on his mace appeared like drops of blood.

That iron arm swung again and slammed into a barrel.

Splinters scattered.

Turnips rolled onto the floor.

Fly, Kyrie! Mirum wanted to scream, but she could bring no breath to her lungs. She felt paralyzed, could barely breathe, and would have fallen had Molok not been holding her.

Dies Irae swung his mace into another chest.

Wood shattered.

Splinters flew.

A cry of pain sounded, and there—in the splintered wreck of the chest—huddled a boy.

Kyrie.

"Ah, here we go," Dies Irae said pleasantly, as if he had just found a missing sock.

Mirum stared, mouth open, Molok clutching her. Huddled on the floor, glaring up with burning eyes, Kyrie seemed so young to her. He was sixteen now, but suddenly to Mirum's eyes, he seemed six again, a mere child, like when she'd found him bloodied among corpses at Lanburg Fields. His hair was fair, dusty, wild. His eyes were brown, more pain and anger in them than fear. As always, his parchment map was rolled up and stuffed into his belt. Kyrie always kept the map on him; his bit of hope, bit of memory, bit of anger.

Ice filled Mirum's stomach. Kyrie did not know Dies Irae like she did. If he had seen Dies Irae slaughter her father, rape her all night by the corpse, he would have less anger in his eyes... and more terror.

Cradling his arm—Dies Irae's mace must have bashed it—Kyrie rose to his feet. He was taller than Mirum already, but when he faced Dies Irae, the golden lord towered over him.

"All right, all right, you win," Kyrie said, eyes flashing. "You found me. Now bugger off before I bash your beak nose."

As Mirum gasped, Dies Irae laughed. It was not a cruel laugh, Mirum thought, nor angry; Dies Irae seemed truly amused. "Bold words," he said, "for a worm caught cowering in a barrel like a rat."

Kyrie glared, fists clenched at his sides. "Am I a rat or a worm? You're good at bashing things, but your tongue is as blunt as that freakish iron hand of yours."

"No, Kyrie," Mirum whispered through a clenched jaw. Fly! Turn into a dragon and fly! Why do you linger here?

But of course, she knew. If Kyrie flew, he'd prove to Dies Irae that he was Vir Requis. The griffins would chase him, but they would not just kill him; they would torture him, then burn him alive upon the towers of Flammis, Dies Irae's marble palace. He thinks he can withstand the ilbane, Mirum realized, feeling faint. Her knees buckled, and she stayed standing only because Molok clutched her arms. No, Kyrie, you cannot; no Vir Requis can, not even the great Benedictus.

"What's your name?" Dies Irae asked the boy, still seeming more amused than slighted.

"Kyrie Eleison," he replied, chin raised, fists still clenched.

"Kyrie, I like you," Dies Irae said. "Most weredragons are terrified of me. They tremble in my presence like the sweet Lady Mirum here. But you,