Blood of Requiem (Song of Dragons, Book 1)

1. BENEDICTUS

BENEDICTUS

War.

War rolled over the world with fire and wings.

The Vir Requis marched. Men. Women. Children. Their clothes were tattered, their faces ashy, and 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 had no more places to hide.

The dying sun blazed red against them. The wind keened. They were five thousand strong, 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, green and silver banners thudding in the wind. The 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, mourning the million of their kin already dead... and those who would die today. Today their race would perish. Today Requiem would fade into memory, then legend, then myth. Thudding boots, a keening wind, and a grumbling sky; he heard no more. Silence before the roar of fire.

Then Benedictus saw their enemy ahead.

The scourge of Requiem. Their end.

Benedictus let out his breath slowly. Here awaited his death. Here awaited the death of his people, the Vir Requis who'd once covered the world and now stood—only five thousand haunted survivors—behind him.

Benedictus stared, barely able to breathe.

His brother's army dwarfed his own. Fifty thousand soldiers stood ahead, all bedecked in the white and gold that Dies Irae had taken for his colors. Thousands of torches crackled, their smoke rising into a sky full of griffins. The beasts shrieked, their wings churning the smoke and 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 unfurled from his back, creaking. Black scales rippled across him, glinting red in the firelight. Fangs sprang from his mouth, dripping drool, and talons grew from his fingers. Requiem's magic filled him, the magic of wings and scales and flame, the magic that Dies Irae lacked and loathed.

A black dragon, large as an ancient oak, breathed fire and took flight. His roar shook the battlefield.

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

Below, the Vir Requis changed form too. The solemn men, women, and children drew in their ancient magic, sprouting wings, scales, and claws. They too rose as dragons. Some were elder beasts missing scales, their fangs chipped or fallen. Others were young and supple, barely old enough to fly, their scales still soft. Some dragons were green, others blue, and some blazed red. A handful, like Benedictus, bore the rare black scales of old noble blood. Years ago, the different colors would squabble, mistrust, and fight one another. Today they banded here, joined to fight Dies Irae—the young, the old, the noble and the common.