A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,108

her shoulder, she saw her rider dead, pierced with a dozen arrows. Below across the city, fires burned and thousands of warriors flew and killed and died.

ELETHOR

They charged down the hall, a thousand warriors swinging blades, trampling corpses beneath them. The soldiers of Requiem charged with longswords, clad in breastplates bearing the Draco stars. The soldiers of Osanna fought at their side, bull horns engraved upon their armor, their one-handed swords lighter but fast as striking asps.

"Get to the staircase!" Elethor cried, sword drenched in blood. He swung that blade with both hands, cleaving the armor of a Tiran warrior. "Take those stairs!"

This place had once been a banquet hall, Elethor thought; faded murals of feasts covered the walls, featuring the Ancients dining on roasted ducks, bowls of pomegranates, and peacocks still bright with feathers. This had been a place of life; today death filled the hall.

Dozens of Tiran soldiers stood between Elethor and the staircase leading deeper into the fortress. They wore armor so pale it was nearly white, the breastplates sporting the Golden Sun of Tiranor. Their sabres swung, spraying blood in arcs, the pommels shaped as sunbursts. Their visors swooped like beaks.

Columns rose every few feet, supporting a low ceiling. Torches crackled. Along the walls, archways led into deeper shadows; more soldiers fought there. There was no room here for dragons or nephilim; here was a war of blade and armor, of hacking forward every foot through blood and entrails and corpses.

"Elethor!" Treale shouted at his side, her sword clanging against Tiran sabres. "What's up those stairs?"

Elethor took a sword's blow to the breastplate and cursed. He swung Ferus down, severing the Tiran arm that had attacked him. With another swing, he slew the man.

"I don't know!" he shouted back. "But we've got to move deeper. Let us fill every corridor, chamber, and staircase in this place."

He had no map of the palace. He did not know where Solina hid. We will fill this mountain like water spilled into an ant hive, he thought. Wherever you lurk, we will find you.

Finally, with a sword swing that clove a man's helmet, Elethor reached the stairway across the banquet hall. He shouted orders, and his forces split into five phalanxes. Each phalanx—a hundred soldiers strong—dashed into another hallway or chamber, leaving the banquet hall littered with corpses. Elethor ran up the staircase, leading his own phalanx, a hundred warriors of both Requiem and Osanna.

You cannot hide, Solina, he thought as he raced upstairs. We will bang down every door and overturn every brick until we find you.

Tirans raced down toward him. Blades swung and men fell dead, and Elethor kept climbing. Treale fought at his side, eyes narrowed and lips tightened; the staircase was only wide enough for two to fight abreast. Their hundred warriors ran behind them, awaiting their turn to fight.

"Solina!" Elethor shouted. He slew a man and climbed another step. "Solina, come and face me! Emerge from hiding, or are you a coward?"

A Tiran ran down toward him, thrusting a spear. Elethor cursed and dodged the weapon; it thrust between him and Treale. Their swords both swung, tearing into the man. They kept climbing. Through the walls, Elethor heard the battle ring across the palace; thousands of his troops were racing through the darkness, filling the mountain.

They fought for every step. They slew a dozen men before they burst into a second chamber—a columned hall lined with archways and torches. Murals covered the ceiling, depicting birds with the heads of men, and a dusty mosaic sprawled across the floor, its stones forming dolphins in a green sea. Fifty Tirans filled this chamber, and with battle cries, they charged forward.

"For Requiem!" Treale screamed and ran toward them.

Elethor ran at her side, and blades swung, and behind them their comrades burst into the chamber. Steel rang and blood washed the floors. Sabres slammed into Elethor's armor, denting it; he could feel his flesh bruising beneath. One sabre cleaved his pauldron, cracking the steel but only nicking his flesh. He kept swinging Ferus, painting the room red.

"Solina!" Elethor shouted. "Damn it, Solina, come face me!"

He snarled as he fought. Sweat drenched him. His wounds blazed. Solina could be anywhere in this fortress; how could he find one woman in this labyrinth? Perhaps she wasn't even in the mountain; perhaps she had fled to fight at another front. He swung Ferus at her men, craving to swing the blade into the queen.

"Solina!"

He charged through the chamber, his warriors at his