Mother?"
Mother rolled her eyes. Smoke left her nostrils. "Kyrie and Gloriae are not knuckleheads like you two. Of course they wouldn't march into a cave full of nightshades, with Dies Irae's army camped outside. They'll have returned to Requiem. I wager that if we fly there now, we'll find them."
Agnus Dei blew fire in rage. The flames lit the clouds. "If Father and I are such knuckleheads, then so are you, Mother. You also entered the cave."
Mother gave her a stare so withering, that Agnus Dei growled and bared her fangs.
"I entered the cave to save you, Agnus Dei," Mother said. "I had just arrived, saw Irae dash into the cave, and heard you scream."
Agnus Dei growled. "I don't need you to save me. I'm a grown woman now."
Mother glared. "You're a grown woman like I'm a griffin."
"You're one ugly griffin then."
Father roared. "Silence! The griffins are free now, Agnus Dei, and you will show them respect. You are a princess of Requiem."
"I am a warrior of Requiem," she said. "I'm no spoiled princess."
"You are my daughter, and I am the king, therefore you are a princess. And now kindly shut your maw. We fly to find Kyrie and Gloriae."
He roared fire, and his wings churned the clouds. He rose higher into the air, until they burst over the clouds, and flew under a shimmering sun. Mountain peaks rose below them, gold and indigo. Benedictus gave a roar that seemed to shake the skies.
"We fly to Requiem."
DIES IRAE
He pushed himself to his feet.
He stared at the blood seeping down his leg.
Jaws clenched, he walked out of the cave, stood upon the mountainside, and saw the weredragons disappear into the distance.
Bodies lay around him, blood painting the snow. Some of the men were burned, their skin peeling, their flesh red and black. Thousands of living soldiers stood there too. They froze when they saw Dies Irae, stood at attention, and slammed their fists against their chests.
He surveyed the scene for a long time, silent. Then Dies Irae left the cave, and walked through the snow to the body of a wounded soldier. The man was missing a leg. The wound looked like a dragon bite. Clutching the stump, the man stared up at Dies Irae.
"My lord," he whispered.
"Give me your sword," Dies Irae said.
The man raised his sword with a bloody, trembling hand. Dies Irae took the weapon, then drove the blade into the man's chest.
He raised his eyes and stared around him. The men still stood at attention, stiff, pale.
Dies Irae approached another wounded soldier. This man lay curled up in red snow, weeping and whispering for his mother. He clutched his spilling entrails, as if he could force them back into his belly. Dragon claws, Dies Irae knew.
"A weredragon attacked you," Dies Irae said.
The soldier wept and nodded.
"And you failed to kill it," Dies Irae said.
The soldier looked up with teary eyes, and Dies Irae drove his sword into the man's chest, pushing him into the snow.
The mountain was silent now. The weeping stopped. The only sound was the wind and swirling snow. Dies Irae looked over his men, the dozens of wounded, the dozens of dead, and the thousands that still stood.
"Has anyone else failed to kill a weredragon today?" he asked.
They stared, silent.
"All who killed a weredragon, raise your hands."
The men stood stiffly, pale, a few trembling.
Dies Irae called forward his captains, the commanders of the ten companies he'd brought to Fidelium. The captains stepped toward him, clad in plate armor, and slammed gauntleted fists against their chests.
"Hail Irae!" they said.
Dies Irae barely acknowledged them. He moved his eyes over the rows of soldiers in the snow. "My men disappointed me today. Decimate them."
The captains breathed in sharply.
"Decimation, my lord?" whispered one, a burly man with a battle axe. "That punishment has not been handed out since the Gray Age."
Dies Irae slowly turned his head, his armor creaking, and examined the man. "You are displeased with my command?"
The captain shook his head and saluted again, fist on breastplate. "Decimation, my lord. As in the days of old."
As Dies Irae watched, the captains arranged their companies into formation. The men stood in rows, ten men deep, fists against their chests. The captains raised their eyes to Dies Irae.
He frowned, thought a moment, and said, "The seventh row."
The soldiers in the seventh rows shifted uneasily. Sweat appeared on their brows. The captains pulled the first men from each seventh row, placed them in the snow, and swung their axes.
Blood