A Night of Dragon Wings - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,11

a goddess of platinum, a deity of steel." He shook his fists above him, claws digging into his palms. "I have foreseen it. I am Prophet. I will lead you out the Iron Door that seals us. I will feed you flesh and blood! We will crush the world and devour those who imprisoned us."

They roared and flew and clawed and bit and wept around him. Myriads filled this prison, crushing one another, clawing uselessly at the walls. Sometimes Legion thought them a single, writhing mass, many merged into one creature over the millennia. Behind them stood the Door, towering, solid iron, never rusting, forever sealing them here, forever burning their flesh, forever containing their madness.

"The door will open! I am Legion! She will free us, and we will crush those who sealed us, we will destroy the world, we will bring chaos and terror, and their spines will snap between our jaws, and their blood will be our wine. Hear me! Follow me, nephilim. We will be free!"

They roiled like a boiling sea and howled and begged and roared. Fangs and claws rose, red with blood, and eyes blazed, and snorts of fire burned, and wings beat as his brothers and sisters climbed one another, gasping for air to howl. Upon his throne of mummified flesh, Legion bared his fangs and laughed and screeched. He could already taste the hot blood and bones, and he shrieked so that the chamber shook—a great cry to his goddess… to Solina.

TREALE

She sailed into Irys wrapped in cloak and hood, the desert wind kissing her lips with the taste of sand.

The boat was long, narrow, and oared, and she stood upon its prow and watched the city. Her heart thrashed and she clenched her fists under her cloak's long sleeves. The delta teemed with ships around her, hundreds of them: trundling cogs laden with chests of grains, fruits, and iron ore; military longships where soldiers shouted orders as they rowed, shields and spears strapped across their backs; the creaky barges of leathery-faced fishermen, their hulls speckled with barnacles; and towering merchant ships with sunbursts upon their sails, their decks bearing bundles of silks, sacks of gems, and exotic beasts in cages. Everywhere Treale looked, sails creaked, oars rowed, men shouted, and gulls flew to nest upon masts and ropes. Reeds swayed everywhere, a field of them rising from the waters, and Treale saw at least two rafts entangled among them. Cranes, ibises, and birds she could not recognize flew overhead, squawking in a chorus. The smells of salt, seaweed, fish, and spices filled the air so thickly Treale could barely breathe.

"Please, stars of Requiem," she whispered in the shadows of her hood. "Watch over me here in this southern land of sun."

And truly a land of sun it was; Treale had never felt such heat, never seen such shimmering light. The sunlight seemed to bleach the world, fading all colors. Treale was used to the northern light of Requiem, a soft light that fell gently upon the green of summer, the orange of fall, and the white of marble columns. Here in Tiranor the sun pounded her cloak—she felt trapped in an oven—and doused the world with blinding whites and yellows. Even the water seemed barely blue, but more a bright white reflecting the sun's wrath.

Behind her, the old peddler coughed, grunted, and spat noisily. She turned to see him squinting at her and scratching his privates. His face looked like beaten leather, and his hair hung in scraggly white braids. Between her and him rose sacks of Osannan silk and wool, treasures he'd claimed to have been shipping into Tiranor for forty years now.

"Welcome to Tiranor, girl," he rasped and spat again. "It's hot and it's crowded, and if you're lucky, you'll last a day. They like Osannan silk here, but not Osannan refugees who stink of the sea. And darling, you smell like fisherman's feet and catfish guts. Now toss me that second silver coin of yours, unless you want to swim the last hundred yards to the docks."

Treale was noble born; she had spent her youth in Oldnale Manor studying dialects of distant lands. Today she spoke with the eastern lilt of Osanna, great realm of men north of Tiranor and east of her fallen land of Requiem.

"I thank you for the ride, old man, and for your warning. But I will not heed it. I survived the wars in north Osanna, even as the undead warriors who rise there