Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,296

fight back. They died around him; it was like slaughtering lambs.

Dies Irae laughed. He had not enjoyed himself so much in many days. He grabbed a baby from its mother, and was about to club it, when a shout rose behind him.

"Let the child go, Irae. Face me instead."

Dies Irae's smile widened.

He turned around slowly.

"Lacrimosa!" he said in delight and tossed the baby aside.

She stood before him, covered in blood and ash. Her armor was dented and nearly falling off. Her clothes were mere tatters. Her hair was singed. She stared with blazing eyes from a blackened face. When she raised her sword, it caught the light and glowed like the stars of Requiem.

"Dies Irae," she said. "Your crusade of death ends here."

He licked his lips. "It's only beginning."

She leaped toward him, swinging her sword.

LACRIMOSA

Stella Lumen hit his breastplate. It sparked and glanced off the steel, shooting pain up Lacrimosa's arm. Dies Irae swung his mace. She leaped back, and the steel arm of Dies Irae swung before her.

Do not parry, she told herself. He will shatter your blade. Jump. Dance. Attack where his armor is weak.

His mace swung again. She leaped back, hitting a fleeing child, and bounded forward. She swung her blade toward his helmet, its visor shaped as a monstrous beak. He parried with his arm, and her sword scratched along the steel, showering sparks. He thrust his mace again, and she ducked, dodging it.

Do not parry. Jump. Dance. He is slow and you are fast.

She sprang up, swinging her sword. She aimed for the chain mail under his arm; it was weaker than his plates of steel. But he twisted, and her blade hit his breastplate, not even chipping it.

"You are feisty, lizard whore," he said, eyes blazing behind the slits in his visor. "Will you be feisty in my bed too?"

She growled and thrust her blade. Do not waste words on him. Jump. Dance. Kill him. She aimed again for his armpit, but he moved, and the blade slammed against his pauldron. He swung the mace again, and this time Lacrimosa did have to parry. The mace glanced off the base of Stella Lumen, and she caught her breath, sure it would shatter. But her father's blade was strong, stronger than most blades of steel; it glowed and rang. She swung it and hit Dies Irae's helmet. He grunted but did not fall.

"Did you hear the sound your husband made when I butchered him?" Dies Irae said, swinging his mace. "He sounded like a pig in heat. You will make the same sound every night when I thrust into you."

Lacrimosa's eyes stung with smoke. Her limbs shook with weakness. The mimics had cut her, and blood stained her left leg and trickled under her ribs. She did not know how bad the wounds were, but she could still stand, still breathe, still kill.

Leap. Jump. Dance.

And they danced. It was the dance of her life—against death, against evil, against blood and darkness. She danced for life, for the light of her stars, for the love of her family—because she could not stop dancing, she could not give up, not when her children needed her, not when her people cried to her from the earth. She was Queen of Requiem. She was a widow. She was a mother. So she swung her sword, and cried to her stars, and lashed her blade at the man who'd raped her, who'd killed her family, who'd shattered the halls of her home. She danced and cried and pierced his armor below the arm, so that he screamed and his blood spilled.

"It's over, Irae," she said, face drenched in sweat. He clutched his wound, glaring at her. "It's over. I end your reign this night."

She swung her sword.

Snarling, he raised his mace and slammed it against her wrist.

Lacrimosa screamed. She felt the bones in her wrist snap. The blade fell from her hand. Dies Irae swung the mace again, and she could not breathe. Pain filled her, white and blinding. Her shoulder shattered. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath. She tried to leap, to run, but he kicked her, and she fell.

Stars of Requiem... give me strength. Help me rise.

He stepped onto her neck, his boot bloody, made from the golden scales of a Vir Requis child. She could not breathe or speak. He lifted her sword with bloody fingers.

"My my," he said. "You still struggle beneath me?"

She tried to speak, but his foot constricted her, nearly snapping her