Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,251

sky, the wind in my hair. I was a warrior of glory, of gold, of grandeur... and of lies.

"Are you sure you know the way?" Gloriae asked her mother. "The land looks different now."

Lacrimosa nodded, walking beside her. "I know. I visited your father here every new moon. I will find the crater."

Her mother's tunic and leggings were tattered, her cheeks were ashy, and her lavender eyes looked too large, her face too thin. When Gloriae looked at her own body, she saw more dirt, more tatters, more scratches and bruises and thinned limbs.

I was a huntress of jewels and might, a light upon Osanna, a champion of justice. And now... now we are humble, and dirty, and gaunt. Gloriae missed those old days, missed the glory. But what glory had that life truly held? Only glory to the blind, she thought. And I was blind. Dirt and hunger, when suffered for truth, are nobler than gold and lies.

Gloriae looked over her shoulder and drew comfort from the sight of their host—marching statues with pulsing Animating Stones in their breasts. Roughly hewn from boulders and columns, they were craggy, bulky things, slow to move and rough to touch. Frost and snow covered them. Their features were mere chips, eyes narrow slits, mouths harsh lines. Though their first statues—the dragon and the maiden—had carved them only recently, they seemed to Gloriae like ancient things, gods of earth and stone and wisdom. The age of the stone appeared in every nook and bump upon them.

"They make a bloody racket," Agnus Dei muttered, walking beside Gloriae. The statues crackled with every step, a sound like grinding rubble. "The mimics will hear."

Kyrie was walking with an arrow in his bow. He snorted. "Let them hear. Our statues beat them to pulp last time. They can do it again."

But last time we fought on our turf, and now we march upon theirs, Gloriae thought, but said nothing. She knew that attacking a place was harder than defending it. Kyrie would learn that today, she suspected. She pulled down her helmet's visor, a gilded mask of her own face. Behind it, she felt like a statue herself, blank and expressionless, made for killing.

"I recognize this place," she said. She pointed at a frozen stream that snaked between craggy boulders shaped like trolls. Rushes had once grown along it; they had burned away in the war, but the boulders were unmistakable. She had camped here with her griffins once. "We're almost there."

Lacrimosa nodded. "Ben's hut was near. We would walk here many times."

And this is the place where I nearly killed Kyrie, Gloriae thought, but said nothing. It seemed so long ago. Dirt for gold. Truth for glory.

They kept walking. The charred trees rose around them, creaking in the wind, heavy with snow and icicles. Soon Gloriae heard a sound from ahead: creaking, hammering, grunting. She sniffed and smelled rot on the wind. We're near.

"Gloriae," said her twin, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You are a brave warrior. You will fight well today."

When Gloriae turned her head, she saw Agnus Dei staring at her with somber eyes. She's afraid, Gloriae realized. And so am I.

She nodded. "You will as well. You are a warrior, Agnus Dei. I've seen you fight. I have fought you myself. Yours is a steel heart."

The sounds grew louder as they walked. Thump thump and twang. Hammering. The creaking of ropes. And above it all the grunting, squealing, and screaming of mimics.

"Stop," Gloriae said, raising her hand to halt the others. The statues too ceased walking; when still, they looked like nothing but boulders with the hint of men's shapes.

"What is it?" Kyrie asked.

"We make too much noise. I'll scout ahead. Wait here."

She left them between the burned trees. As she walked, she drew Per Ignem, and the blade caught the light. My blade is thirsty for your blood, Irae, she thought as she walked. You gave me this blade. You gave me these steel-tipped boots. You gave me this steel armor and this steel soul. A snarl found her lips. If you are here today, these weapons you gave me will be your death.

The sounds from ahead grew louder. Thump. Twang. Squeals and shouts. Move faster, maggots. Get this dirt out of here. Screams and clashing metal. And above it all, a stench of rot that filled Gloriae's helmet and made her growl.

She stepped over a fallen bole, climbed a hill of burned birches, and beheld the Animating Stone mine.