Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,2

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. 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.

MIRUM

The Lady Mirum was riding her mare by the sea when she saw the griffins. She shivered and cursed.

The morning had begun like any other. She woke in Fort Sanctus to a windy dawn, waves crashing outside, the air scented of sea and moss. Julian packed her a breakfast of bread and kippers wrapped in leather, and she took the meal on her morning ride along the gray, foaming sea. No omens had heralded danger; no thunderstorms, no comets cutting the clouds, no strange pattern to the leaves of her tea the night before. Just another morning of galloping, of the smells of seaweed and salt and horse, of the sounds of gulls and sea and hooves in sand.

Yet here they flew, maybe a league away, their shrieks clear even over the roar of hooves and waves. Mirum saw three of them—great beasts, half lions and half eagles, fifty feet long. In the distance, they looked like seraphs, golden and alight.

Griffins. And they were heading to Fort Sanctus. Her home.

Mirum's mare bucked and whinnied.

"Easy, Sol," she said and patted the horse's neck, though she herself trembled. She had not seen griffins in ten years, not since Dies Irae had killed her father, not since she had sworn allegiance to the man at age sixteen, kissed his hand so he'd let her live, let her keep the smallest of her father's forts.

Sol nickered and bucked again. The griffins were flying closer, shrieking their eagle shrieks. Though still a league away, Mirum could see glints of armor, and the stream of golden banners. Riders. She felt the blood leave her face.

Dies Irae's men.

Maybe, Mirum thought with a chill, Dies Irae himself rode there.

The wind gusted, howled, and blew Mirum's cloak back to reveal her sword. She placed her palm upon the