chunk, and kicked.
The griffin's rider thrust his lance. It dug into Benedictus's shoulder, and he growled, clawed, and snapped the man's head. The body slumped in the saddle. Benedictus clawed again, and the griffin fell dead from the sky.
Benedictus looked around. Were the griffins all dead?
No. The first griffin he'd burned was still alive, fur and feathers blazing. It shot toward him, screeching, its rider also burning and screaming. The man had removed his armor, and his skin peeled and blazed. His eyes had melted, but his mouth was still open and screaming. Still the griffin flew at Benedictus, talons outstretched.
Benedictus blew more fire. The blaze hit the griffin, pushing it back. It tumbled a few feet, then again flew at Benedictus. It looked like some roasted animal now, smoking and furless, its skin red and black and blistering. The beak was open and screeching, the rider writhing and screaming, a ball of fire and blood.
Benedictus howled and lashed his tail, driving its spikes into the griffin, and finally it tumbled toward the ground. It fell like a comet, still screeching, until it hit the ground and was silent.
Benedictus turned and kept flying after Lacrimosa.
"Damn the fire, and damn the blood," he said, jaw tight. He had seen so many burned this way, so many dying in agony. What was one more to the weight already on his soul? His wounds ached, blood dripped down his shoulder, but Benedictus ignored the pain. What were more scars to those he already bore, and what was more pain to the weight of his memories?
He gritted his teeth and flew.
Distant figures flew a league ahead, mere specks. Benedictus narrowed his eyes. More griffins, he knew. He didn't have to get any closer to know these were no birds, but riders Dies Irae had sent after him. Benedictus cursed under his breath and turned south. Storm clouds gathered there, maybe two leagues away. They would serve as cover. It was out of his way, but clear skies swarmed with griffins. If Benedictus wanted to reach Confutatis alive, he'd have to take the long route.
"I'm sorry, Lacrimosa," he whispered. He flew south toward those storm clouds, glancing east toward the griffins until he no longer saw them. "I'm sorry, love of my life. You'll have to hold on a little longer, but I'm coming for you. I'll be there soon."
His wing ached more than ever, a searing pain that drove down his entire left side. Soon Benedictus flew through rain and thunder. He told himself that the drops on his cheeks were only rain, not tears. Again, as with his hope of defeating Dies Irae and saving his family, he knew that he was lying to himself.
DIES IRAE
As they flew, Dies Irae couldn't help it. He kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the distance for Benedictus. At times he thought he saw the beast, but it was only a distant vulture, or another griffin on patrol, and once—Dies Irae shook his head to remember it—even a crow had made him squint and stare and hope.
Soon twilight fell, and Benedictus had not caught up. Of course not, Dies Irae told himself with a grunt. His brother still had a torn wing; he could not fly as fast as these griffins. It was pathetic. Benedictus, great King of Requiem, was but a slow, lumbering beast.
Should I send griffins after him, hunt him down? No. He will come to me. He will follow.
The setting sun gilded the mountains below. Their western slopes, snowy and undulating, glimmered like beaten gold. Their eastern slopes melted into mist, deep blue and purple strewn with black lines where rocks broke the snow. Yellow and orange wisps ran across the sky, and the clouds burned. The glory of Osanna, Dies Irae thought, admiring the masterpiece that was his empire. My land, beautiful, no longer tainted by the scaled beasts that once covered its skies.
But of course, some weredragons remained. A moan sounded below, and Dies Irae looked down. Volucris still clutched Lacrimosa in his talons. Her scales were dented, and blood seeped from nicks and scratches that covered her. Why does she not take human form? Dies Irae wondered. Why does she remain this beastly lizard? Dies Irae wanted to see her human shape again—ached for it. He remembered that night in Requiem Forest, how he'd pressed his body against hers, grabbed it, squeezed it. His blood boiled at the thought. He wanted that human body again, to clutch it, crush it, hurt