Blood of Requiem (Song of Dragons, Book 1)

3. KYRIE ELEISON

KYRIE ELEISON

"Mirum!" Kyrie howled.

The griffin on his back shrieked and dug its talons into him. Kyrie struggled, lashing his tail, and freed himself. Two more griffins flew at him, one from each side.

Mirum...

Tears in his eyes, Kyrie pulled his wings close. He swooped from the tower top to the boulders below, the rocky beach, and the crashing waves. Water sprayed him. He twisted, skimmed across the water, and shot up. The griffins followed, reaching out their talons.

"No... Mirum..." Kyrie wept. He could barely see the waves, the clouds, the fort, or the griffins that followed. All he could see was the image of Dies Irae clubbing Lady Mirum, the image of her falling, head cracked. Dead. She could not have survived that blow; Kyrie knew it. And yet... he had to go back. He had to get her body, to bury her at sea.

Fly, Kyrie! Her voice still echoed in his mind. Leave me!

A griffin slammed into Kyrie, and its talons ripped off scales. Kyrie screamed, pain blazing. He blew fire, roaring red flames of all his fury, setting the griffin alight. It shrieked so loudly it hurt Kyrie's ears. It swooped into the sea, then emerged smoking and screaming.

Fly!

"I'll come back for you," Kyrie swore... and he flew.

He flew low and skimmed the water, the wind lashing him. He was soon a league from Fort Sanctus. When he looked back, he saw the griffins following. Dies Irae, Gloriae, and Molok rode them. Damn. Dragon eyes were sharp—sharper than his eyes in human form—and Kyrie could see that Dies Irae glared, his thin mouth curving. His mace was raised.

Let's see how fast you bastards can fly, Kyrie thought and narrowed his eyes. He pumped his wings. At night, streaming over fields and seas, he could travel hundreds of leagues in a flight. Now he flew faster than ever. There was no way those griffins could fly half that fast, Kyrie told himself. Not while bearing armored riders.

He rose above the water, moving higher and higher. He crashed through the clouds and emerged into startling blue sky, the sun a blazing disk above, blinding him. Kyrie found an air current and shot forward, body straight as a javelin. He gritted his teeth and flapped his wings madly, pushing himself forward with all his strength. He was moving so fast now the clouds below him blurred. The sun hit his back, and the icy air bit him. He had never flown faster.

Goodbye, Irae, he thought and grinned bitterly.

Then he heard it.

A griffin shriek.

He turned his head and cursed. Impossible! The griffins were pursuing, bodies like arrows. How could they fly so fast?

Kyrie grunted. He flapped his wings with all his might. His body ached. The air stung him, icicles covered him, and he could hardly breathe. It was cold up here—freezing—the air so thin his head spun. He would not survive much longer at this altitude. Kyrie lowered himself just a few hundred yards, dipping into the clouds. Moisture clung to him and filled his maw, eyes, and nostrils. When he turned his head again, he could see nothing but cloud, but he heard them. They were moving closer. Gritting his teeth, Kyrie kept flying, aching, moving faster than an arrow. He must have traveled thirty leagues, maybe more, but could not lose them. He pulled his wings close, dived, and emerged from under the clouds.

He saw a land of rock and water. He still flew over the sea, but great stone teeth now rose from the water, some hundreds of feet tall. The jutting rock formed towers, snaking walls, and canyons of foaming sea. Rising from crashing waves, the rocks looked like forts, complete with pillars and bridges and tunnels, battlements of some forgotten water gods. The sea roared between the pillars and through stone tunnels, moving in and out of crevices like the watery breath of sea monsters. Kyrie had never seen this place, this realm of rock and foam and salt, and he gasped at its beauty and danger.