Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,4

fist on her heart, Dies Irae's salute of loyalty.

Riders sat upon the three griffins, staring down at her. Each wore steel armor filigreed in gold, a sword in a jeweled sheath, and a snowy cape. The man who rode the largest, foremost griffin was especially resplendent. He looked like a god of wealth. Sapphires, rubies, and emeralds encrusted his helmet. Garnets and amber formed a griffin upon his breastplate, and golden weave ran through his samite cloak. His gilded helmet hid his face, the visor shaped as a griffin's beak, but Mirum saw his arm, and she knew him at once.

Mirum had been there that day, the day Dies Irae lost his left arm. She had been sixteen when the battle of Lanburg Fields raged. Her father had been dead for only a moon, and already she, Lady Mirum, rode to war under Dies Irae's banner. He insisted she ride at his side, reveled in the thought of her fighting for him, he who'd murdered her father and raped her. She watched, weeping, as Dies Irae killed the last Vir Requis, the remains of that ancient race. She watched, shivering, as the legendary Benedictus—King of Requiem and brother to Dies Irae—bit off her tormentor's arm. You wept like a babe at my feet, Mirum remembered, but she had felt no pity for him. She had not seen Dies Irae since that night... not until this gray morning, until he arrived at her doorstep, arrived with his griffins and soldiers and old, pulsing pain.

Like a body tossed into the sea, you return to my shore, rotten and smelling of old blood. Sol nickered beneath her and cantered sideways as if feeling her pain.

"Go! Go!" the gulls cawed. Flee!

But Mirum did not flee. Could not. She would not abandon what she hid here.

"Hail Irae!" she called, as she knew she must.

Upon his griffin, Dies Irae nodded to her, a golden god. He said nothing.

He wore a new arm now, she saw. It was an arm made of steel, encrusted with garnets like beads of blood. Instead of a fist, the arm ended with a mace head, spiked and cruel. It glistened even under the overcast sky.

Mirum dismounted her horse and curtsied before him.

Please, Earth God, she prayed, staring at the stone ground. Please don't let him find what I hide here.

She heard the three riders dismount their griffins, heard boots walk toward her. Soon she could see those boots as she curtsied, spurred leather boots tipped with steel. Then the spiked mace—the iron fist of Dies Irae's new arm—thrust itself before her face.

"You may kiss my hand, child," came a voice, the chilly voice Mirum remembered from a decade ago, the voice that had murmured in her ear as he raped her by her father's body.

Though disgust filled her, Mirum kissed the mace head, a hurried peck of her lips. It tasted like coppery blood.

Please, Earth God, please. Don't let Irae find him....

"Your Grace," Mirum said, head still lowered, fingers trembling.

"Rise, child," he said, and she straightened to face him. She could not see his face, only that jeweled visor shaped like an eagle's head, and she shivered. Dies Irae's lieutenants noticed and laughed—cold, cruel laughter like the sound of waves against stone. One was a tall, gaunt man covered in steel, his visor barred like a prisoner's mask. The other was a woman in white leggings, her breastplate molded to fit the curve of her breast, a gilded visor hiding her face. Both bore swords with grips shaped as talons.

Dies Irae turned to face them, those riders bedecked in gold and steel, and clucked his tongue. "Now now, it is impolite to laugh." He turned back to Mirum, standing too close, mere inches away. "You must forgive my riders. They do not often find themselves in the presence of a lady, and they are weary from a long flight. If you do not mind, we would much like to break our fast here, and to drink wine from your cellar. Would you be so kind as to host us at your home, if only for an hour?"

Mirum bowed her head. It was not a request, she knew, but a command. Her stomach roiled. The memories and fear pounded through her. "It would be an honor, my lord."

She led them down the outcrop of stone, her boots confident upon the moss. Waves crashed at their sides. Behind her, she heard the griffin riders struggling and muttering curses. She could walk this damp,