Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,14

fire. The griffin ahead swerved, dodging the flames. Kyrie swooped, zoomed by it, almost hit the water, then straightened himself to skim over the waves. The boulders rose around him, black and jagged, and one almost hit his shoulder. Waves and foam brushed his belly.

You're fast bastards, he thought, but let's see you maneuver.

Stone walls rose ahead, a canyon between them, barely wider than his body. Kyrie flew into the canyon, the walls rushing by his sides. The sea roared below, spraying him with foam, and he could barely see the sky. Screeches came behind him, and when Kyrie glanced over his shoulder, he saw the griffins follow him into the canyon.

Rocks jutted out from the cliff sides, and Kyrie flew up and down, dodging them. He snaked around boulders like liquid silver streaming through a labyrinth. Fire pumped through him, and despite the danger and anguish, Kyrie grinned over gritted teeth. This was what he'd been born for. This was flying. In some places, the canyon walls met above him, forming tunnels. One tunnel was so low, Kyrie's belly grazed the sea as he flew. A thud came behind him, followed by a shriek of pain.

"Having fun, girls?" Kyrie shouted over his shoulder, and saw that one griffin was hurt, its shoulder bleeding. Kyrie grinned and kept flapping his wings, which was hard to do in a tunnel this narrow. His heart raced. I was made for this.

Suddenly the canyon curved, and Kyrie made a sharp turn. His shoulder grazed the stone wall, and he grunted, but he made the turn with nothing but a scratch. Behind him came a thud, a shriek, and a rider's cry; one griffin at least had not made the turn. Kyrie kept flying. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that the wounded griffin was gone. So was its rider, the gaunt Lord Molok. Kyrie hoped he was dead.

The canyon ended, the walls giving way to a network of jagged pillars. Some met above him, crisscrossing, molded together. Kyrie flew up and down, left and right, moving between the pillars at top speed. Around one column, a boulder rose from the waves, and Kyrie shot straight up, under an overhanging stone, left around another column, and quickly down into a tunnel.

Damn, he thought, then heard a crash behind him. A second griffin was gone. Its rider, the beautiful and icy Gloriae, crashed into the water.

One griffin remained now, and one rider.

Dies Irae.

The man who'd killed Mirum.

Kyrie grunted. Now we're even.

Flying between the stone boulders, he spun to face Dies Irae on his griffin. He howled and blew fire.

The flames roared, and the griffin rose, dodging the fire, but hit an overhanging arch of stone. The beast screeched, and Kyrie shot forward, claws slashing.

Dies Irae pulled the reins, and his griffin bucked, raising its talons. Kyrie's claws hit the griffin's leg, drawing blood. The griffin reached out to bite, but Kyrie was too fast. He dodged the beast, then lashed his spiked tail.

He hit Dies Irae, cracking his armor. Blood seeped from the steel. More blood flowed down the griffin's flanks. Kyrie growled.

"You're dead now, Irae," he said. Smoke rose from his nostrils. "You killed Mirum. You killed my family. And now I'm going to kill you."

He sucked in air, prepared to blow flames and roast the glittering, one-armed lord.

Dies Irae raised a crossbow.

So fast Kyrie barely saw it, a quarrel flew. It slammed into Kyrie's chest.

Kyrie howled. Pain bloomed, twisting and sizzling. He knew that pain. Ilbane. The quarrel was coated with the poison.

Kyrie gritted his teeth. No! No. This does not end here. He blew fire.

The flames roared, hit the griffin, and its fur kindled. It screeched, and Kyrie tried to fly toward it, to claw it apart, to crush Dies Irae, but his wings felt stiff. He could barely fly. He dipped several yards.

A second quarrel flew.

Wings aching, pain blazing, Kyrie managed to flap aside. The quarrel scratched his shoulder, tearing off a scale, burning. Kyrie roared. He felt ready to pass out, but he mustered every last bit of rage, horror, and hatred in him, and he shot forward.

For Mirum. For my father, mother, brothers, and sisters. For ten years of hiding in stinking barrels. He opened his maw, howling, prepared to bite off Dies Irae's head.

For an instant, his eyes locked with Dies Irae's stare. The man's eyes blazed. He seemed full of so much hate, so much pain, that Kyrie nearly faltered. What was it? What caused