Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure (35 page)

Jamie looked at her shield, the shield Lenore had given her. Before Lenore had died, she had tried to teach Jamie something, something she had learned, a lesson for Jamie. The warrior woman had died before passing on that knowledge, but Jamie finally thought she understood what Lenore wanted her to learn.

I'm not going to fight forever, Lenore,
she thought.
I won't try to forever hide inside armor, behind this shield, lying about who I am. I'll build a house here, and maybe sometimes I can hang up this sword and this shield.

"Hey, Jamie," Romy called from the hilltop, waving. "Hurry up."

Jamie shook her head, clearing it of thoughts, and smiled. "Wait up!" she called and ran up the hill, laughing.

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

Standalones:

Firefly Island
(2007)

The Gods of Dream
(2010)

Flaming Dove
(2010)

Eye of the Wizard
(2011)

Song of Dragons
:

Blood of Requiem
(2011)

Tears of Requiem
(forthcoming)

Light of Requiem
(forthcoming)

BLOOD OF REQUIEM

SONG OF DRAGONS, BOOK ONE

by

Daniel Arenson

Song of Dragons
, a new fantasy series by Daniel Arenson, tells a story of blood, steel, and dragonfire.

BOOK ONE: BLOOD OF REQUIEM

Long ago stood the kingdom of Requiem, a land of men who could grow wings and scales, breathe fire, and take flight as dragons. Requiem ruled the sky.

But Dies Irae, a tyrant leading an army of griffins, hunted Requiem's people, burned their forests, and shattered their temples. Requiem fell. This ancient land now lies in ruin, its halls crumbled, its cries silenced, its skeletons littering the burned earth.

In the wilderness, a scattering of survivors lives in hiding. The griffins still hunt them, and every day promises death. Will Requiem's last children perish in exile... or once more become dragons and fly to war?

Here's an excerpt from
Blood of Requiem
:

War.

War rolled over the world with fire and wings.

The Vir Requis marched. Men. Women. Children. Their clothes were tattered, their faces ashy, their bellies tight. As their cities burned behind them, they marched with cold eyes. All had come to fight this day: the young and the old, the strong and the wounded, the brave and the frightened. They were five thousand. They had no more places to hide.

The dying sun blazed red against them. The wind keened. Five thousand. The last of their race.

We will stand, we will fly, we will perish with fire and tooth,
Benedictus thought, jaw clenched.
Men will say: Requiem did not fade with a whimper, but fell with a thunder that shook the mountains.

And so he marched, and behind him his people followed, banners red and gold, thudding in the wind.
Last stand of Requiem.

It was strange, he thought, that five thousand should move together so silently. Benedictus heard only thumping boots. No whispers. No sobs. No whimpers even from the children who marched, their eyes too large in their gaunt faces. The Vir Requis were silent today, silent for the million of their kin already dead, for this day when their race would perish, enter the realm of memory, then legend, then myth. Nothing but thudding boots, a keening wind, and a grumbling sky. Silence before the roar of fire.

Then Benedictus saw the enemy ahead.

The scourge of Requiem. Their end.

Benedictus let out his breath slowly. Here was his death. The death of these hunted, haunted remains of his kind, the Vir Requis who had once covered the world and now stood, still and silent, behind him.

A tear streamed down Benedictus's cheek. He tasted it on his lips—salty, ashy.

His brother's host dwarfed his own. Fifty thousand men stood ahead: swordsmen, horsemen, archers, all bedecked in the white and gold that Dies Irae took for his colors. They carried torches, thousands of fires that raised smoky pillars. Countless griffins flew over these soldiers, shrieking, their wings churning the clouds. The army shimmered like a foul tapestry woven with images of the Abyss.

Benedictus smiled grimly.
They burned our forests. They toppled our cities. They chased us to every corner of the earth. If they force us to fight here, then we will die fighting well.

He clenched his fists.

War.

War crashed with blood and screams and smoke.

Benedictus, King of Requiem, drew his magic with a howl. Black wings sprouted from his back, unfurling and creaking. Black scales rippled across him, glinting red in the firelight. Fangs sprang from his mouth, dripping drool, and talons grew from his fingers. Soon he was fifty feet long, a black dragon breathing fire. Requiem's magic filled him, the magic of wings and scales and flame, the magic that Dies Irae lacked and loathed. Benedictus took flight, claws tearing the earth. His roar shook the battlefield.

Let them see me. Let them see Benedictus the Black, for one final time under the sky, spreading wings and roaring flame.

Behind him, the Vir Requis he led changed form too. The solemn men, women, and children drew the ancient magic of their race, grew wings, scales, and claws. They too became dragons, as cruel and beautiful as the true dragons of old. Some became elder beasts missing scales, their fangs long fallen. Others were young, supple, their scales still soft, barely old enough to fly. A few were green, others blue, and some blazed red. A handful, like Benedictus, bore the rare black scales of old noble blood. Once the different colors, the different families and noble lines, would fight one another, would mistrust and kill and hate. Today they banded here, joined to fight Dies Irae—the young, the old, the noble and the common.

This night they fought with one roar.

The last Vir Requis,
Benedictus thought.
Not humans. Not dragons. Weredragons, the humans call us. Shunned. Today is our last flight.

War. With steel and flame.

Arrows pelted Benedictus, jabs of agony. Most shattered against his scales, but some sank into his flesh. Their tips were serrated, coated with poison that burned through his veins. He roared and blew fire at the men below, the soldiers his brother tricked or forced into battle today. They screamed, cursed him, feared him; the Vir Requis were monsters to them. Benedictus swooped, lifted several soldiers in his claws, and tossed them onto their comrades. Spears flew. Flaming arrows whistled. Everywhere was blood, fire, and screaming.

War. With poison and pain.

Around him, the Vir Requis flew as dragons, the forms they always took in battle. They breathed fire and roared. Spears and arrows plucked the young from the skies. Their scales were too soft, their wings too small. They hit the ground, screaming, soon overcome with swordsmen who hacked them. Blood splashed. In death they resumed human forms; battered, bloodied, butchered children.

They take our youth first,
Benedictus thought. He slammed into soldiers below, biting, clawing, lashing his tail, ignoring the pain of swordbites.
They let us, the old, see the death of our future before they fell us too from the skies.

These older Vir Requis—the warriors—fought with fire, claw, and fang. These ones had seen much war, had killed too many, bore too many scars. Soon mounds of bodies covered the battlefield. The Vir Requis howled as they killed and died.

Our race will fall here today,
Benedictus thought as spears flew and shattered against his scales.
But we will make a last stand for poets to sing of.

And then shrieks tore the air, and the griffins were upon him.

They were cruel beasts, as large as dragons, their bodies like great lions, their heads the heads of eagles, their beaks and talons sharp. In the books of men they were noble, warriors of light and righteousness, sent by the Sun God to fight the curse of Requiem, the wickedness of scales and leathery wings. To Requiem they were monsters.

Today Benedictus saw thousands of them, swooping beasts of feathers and talons. Two crashed into him, scratching and biting. One talon lashed his front leg, and Benedictus roared. He swung his tail, hit one's head, and cracked its skull. It tumbled. Benedictus blew fire onto the second. Its fur and feathers burst into flame. Its shrieks nearly deafened him, and it too fell, blazing, to crash into men below.

Panting and grunting with pain, sluggish with poison, Benedictus glanced around. The griffins were swarming; they outnumbered the Vir Requis five to one. Most Vir Requis lay dead upon the bloody field, pierced with arrows and spears and talons. And then more griffins were upon Benedictus, and he could see only their shrieking beaks, their flashing talons. Flaming arrows filled the air.

Has it truly been only five years?
Benedictus thought as talons tore into him, shedding blood. Haze covered his thoughts, and the battle almost seemed silent around him.
Five years since my father banished my brother, since a million of us filled the sky? Yes, only five years. Look at us now.
Dragons fell around him like rain, maws open, tears in their eyes.

"No!" Benedictus howled, voice thundering. He blew fire, forcing the haze of death off him. He was not dead yet. He still had some killing in him, some blood to shed, some fire to breathe.
Not until I've killed more. Not until I find the man who destroyed us. Dies Irae. My brother.

He clawed, bit, and burned as his comrades fell around him, as the tears and blood of Requiem filled the air and earth.

He fought all night, a night of fire, and all next day, fought until the sun again began to set. Its dying rays painted the world red.

Pierced by a hundred arrows, weary and bloody, Benedictus looked around and knew: The others were gone.

He, Benedictus, was the last.

He flew between griffins and spears and arrows. His brethren lay slain all around. In death, they lay as humans. Men. Women. Children. All those he had led to battle; all lay cut and broken, mouths open, limbs strewn, eyes haunted and still.

Benedictus raised his eyes. He stared at the army ahead, the army he now faced alone. Thousands of soldiers and griffins faced him under the roiling clouds. The army of Dies Irae.

He saw his brother there, not a mile away, clad in white and gold. Victorious.

Bleeding, tears in his eyes, Benedictus flew toward him.

Spears clanged against Benedictus. Arrows pierced him. Griffins clawed him. Still he swooped toward Dies Irae. Fire and screams flowed around him, and Benedictus shot like an arrow, roaring, wreathed in flame.

Dies Irae rose from the battlefield upon a griffin, bearing a lance of silver and steel. Gold glistened upon his armor and samite robes. He appeared to Benedictus like a seraph, a figure of light, ablaze like a sun.

Benedictus, of black scales and blood and fire, and Dies Irae, of gold and white upon his griffin. They flew toward each other over the mounds of dead.

Benedictus was hurt and weary. The world blurred. He could barely fly. He was too hurt, too torn, too haunted. Dies Irae crashed into him, a blaze like a comet, so white and righteous and golden. Benedictus howled, hoarse. He felt Dies Irae's silver spear pierce his wing. He heard that wing tearing, a sound like ripping leather. It was the most terrifying sound Benedictus had ever heard, and the pain seemed unreal, too great to truly fill him. He crashed into the griffin that bore his brother. Screaming, mouth bloody, he bit down. His jaws severed Dies Irae's arm. He felt the arm in his mouth, clad in armor, and he spat it out, saw it tumble to the ground.

Dies Irae screamed, cried, and clutched the stump of his arm. Blood covered him. His griffin clawed Benedictus's side, pain blazed, and Benedictus kicked. He hit the griffin's head, crushing it. The griffin fell. Dies Irae fell. His brother hit the ground, screaming. His griffin lay dead beside him.

Benedictus landed on the ground above his brother.

The battle froze.

The soldiers, knights, and griffins all stood still and stared, as if in shock. Benedictus stood panting, blood in his mouth, blood on his scales, and gazed down at his brother. Dies Irae looked so pale. Blood covered his golden armor and samite robe.

"My daughter," Benedictus said, voice low. "Where is Gloriae?"

"Please," Dies Irae whispered, lips pale, face sweaty. "Please, Benedictus. My brother. Please."

Benedictus growled. He spoke through the blood in his maw, voice hoarse and torn. "You destroyed us. You butchered a million souls. How dare you ask for mercy now? Return me my daughter."

Dies Irae trembled. Suddenly he looked so much as he did years ago, a timid and angry child, a scorned brother cast away from his father's court. "Please," he whispered, clutching his stump. "Please."

Benedictus raised a clawed foot, prepared to strike down, to kill the man who had hunted his race to near extinction. Dies Irae shut his eyes and whimpered. His lips prayed silently and his blood flowed.

Benedictus paused.

He looked around him. No more Vir Requis flew. They covered the battlefield, dead. Their war had ended. The time of Requiem had ended.

It is over,
Benedictus knew.
No. I will not end it this way, not with killing my brother. It is over already.

With a grunt, Benedictus kicked off the ground, flapped his wings, and rose into the air.

Men and griffins screamed around him.

"Kill him!" Dies Irae shouted below. "Don't let him flee! I want him dead!"

Benedictus would not look back. He could see only the thousands of bodies below.
I will find you, Gloriae. I won't forget you.

His wings roiled ash and smoke. Arrows whistled around him, and he rose into the clouds. He flew in darkness. Soon the screams of men and griffins faded into the distance.