PROLOGUE
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.
Benedictus the Black, King of
Requiem, disappeared into the night.
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