Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,5

mossy stone as though walking across a grassy meadow, but most struggled for balance upon it, and the spraying waves did little to help. Still, Mirum would not turn to offer aid, nor would she slow her pace. Let them slip upon the moss. Let them fall against the boulders, and drown in the sea at the foot of my tower.

Her prayers went unanswered. Soon she reached the doors of Fort Sanctus, towering doors of chipped oak, the wood dark with mold, the knobs brown with rust. The griffin riders, still cursing under their breath, came to stand beside her. Ignoring them, Mirum placed her hands on the doors, leaned against them, and they creaked open on rusty hinges.

"By the Sun God, the place still stinks," Dies Irae muttered, though still Mirum would not turn to face him. Her hall might be dusty, its walls mossy, its tapestries tattered... but it did not stink. It smelled like salt, like seaweed, like sand and like horse. This was no stench, but a smell Mirum loved. It had stunk once, that night ten years ago when Dies Irae had slain her soldiers, her servants, and her father.

Mirum dared glance at Dies Irae's neck. She saw a golden chain there, its links thick. Those links disappeared under Dies Irae's breastplate. Does he wear the amulet, the Griffin Heart? she wondered, fingers trembling. She imagined leaping forward, tugging the chain, stealing his amulet, stealing his griffins. But of course, armies of Vir Requis had fought to reclaim the Griffin Heart, to reclaim the power to tame and control griffinflesh. Those armies had failed. What chance would she have?

Dies Irae jerked his head to one of his lieutenants, the gaunt man with the barred visor. Hand on the pommel of his sword, the man moved to guard the doors.

God, he knows, Mirum thought. Her heart pounded. He knows what I hide here, he knows of him, he's blocking his escape. God, why did I let the boy fly? Somebody must have seen him, and now Dies Irae has come here, come to this hall with his sword and his promise of blood.

Mirum clutched her fingers behind her back to hide their tremble.

"Please sit at my table, my lord," she said. She stared at that chipped old table, not daring to look at Dies Irae. Her heart thrashed. "I will serve you bread and fish."

With a snort, the female griffin rider removed her helmet, and Mirum felt herself pale. She recognized this face, and it sent shivers through her. The woman was beautiful, achingly so, with icy green eyes, red lips, and cascading golden locks. She couldn't have been older than eighteen, yet none of youth's life nor folly seemed to fill her; her face was cold and cruel as a statue.

Gloriae.

Dies Irae's daughter.

As Mirum watched, Gloriae spat onto the floor. Her spit landed at Mirum's feet.

"Bah! Bread and fish," Gloriae said, those perfect red lips curling in disgust. "We've not flown for hours to this place to eat bread and fish. Have you no boar? No deer or fowl? What kind of hall do you run, you seaside waif?"

Mirum felt the blood rush back into her cheeks. She knew the stories. She knew that King Benedictus had believed this young woman to be his own daughter, not the daughter of Dies Irae's rapes. Mirum, however, saw only the cruelty of Dies Irae in this one. She remembered the stories of Gloriae killing her first Vir Requis at age six, of killing ten more when she was but eight.

Trained from childhood in malice and murder, Mirum thought, for a moment rage overpowering her fear.

Disgust filled her mouth, tasting of bile. She forced herself to curtsy before Gloriae. "Forgive me, my lady. This is a but a simple seaside fort, the home of waifs, not the abode of great, illustrious nobles such as yourself." She wondered if Gloriae would detect the sarcasm in her voice. "But if you please, I would be glad to serve fine ale with your meal."

Gloriae stared at her, eyebrows rising over those icy green eyes. Her white cheeks flushed just the slightest. She took a step forward, drew her sword with a hiss, and placed its cold tip against Mirum's neck. Mirum stiffened. The blade was white steel, beautiful and glinting, its base filigreed in gold, and Mirum could imagine Vir Requis blood flowing down its grooves.

"Ale, you say?" Gloriae said softly, regarding her, one eyebrow raised. She tilted her head, her