Blood of Requiem (Song of Dragons, Book 1)

28. BENEDICTUS

BENEDICTUS

Benedictus trudged through the snow, his hands pale and numb, his feet icy in his boots. He pulled his cloak close around him, shook snow out of his hair, and cursed again. He'd never felt such chill, both the chill that filled his body and the ice that filled his gut.

He wished he could fly. Walking like this was so slow, and every hour he delayed was an hour Lacrimosa suffered. But he dared not fly. Not with the griffins that filled the skies, the eyes in every town that watched for him.

"Lacrimosa," he whispered, plowing through the snow, his fists trembling from anger and cold. "I'm going to find you. Just hang in there, and I'll—"

Shrieks tore through his words. Griffins. Benedictus cursed and dived down, pulled his cloak over his head, and lay still. His cloak was coarse charcoal wool, now covered in snow. Benedictus knew that lying here, he could look like just another boulder. The snow filled his mouth, stung his face, and the griffins shrieked. They flew above every hour, their riders scanning the mountains, bearing crossbows and lances. Benedictus lay still, not even daring to breathe.

The griffins' cries came closer. Benedictus cursed again. They're going to find me this time, he thought and clenched his jaw. How many were there? He hadn't had time to look. A dozen? Twenty? Last time they flew above, he had counted seventeen. He could not beat that many. Not these days, old and lame. Not without Kyrie and Agnus Dei at his side.

The shrieks were so close now, they loosened snow from the mountainside. Chunks of the stuff hit Benedictus's back, heavy and icy. Benedictus tightened his fists. What if the falling snow became an avalanche, burying him? Lacrimosa would remain in captivity, Dies Irae torturing her for sport—

No. Benedictus shoved the thought away. I'm going to live. I'm going to save Lacrimosa. And I'm going to save Gloriae too. I'm finally going to bring my daughter back.

Griffin wings thudded above. Benedictus heard talons landing, kicking up snow. It wasn't fifty yards away. More talons landed, scraping snow and rocks. There were many griffins this time; at least twenty, maybe thirty. They cawed and scratched the ground.

Get up and fight, spoke a voice inside Benedictus. You are King of Requiem, Benedictus the Black. You do not cower. You do not hide under a cloak. Get up and kill these bastards.

"I saw something," spoke a voice ahead—one of the riders. "A man walking through the snow."

A griffin shrieked. Leather and metal moaned and chinked—saddles and armor. Scabbards clanged against cuisses. Benedictus heard the sound of a crossbow being loaded.

"Bah!" came another voice, deeper than the first. "I see nobody here. No man can survive these mountains. You saw a goat, that's all."

Rise up and fight them, spoke the voice in Benedictus's head. I will not be caught cowering like a dog. He gritted his teeth. No. Stay still. You can't save Lacrimosa if you're dead.

A griffin walked toward him; he could hear the talons sinking into the snow and scratching the stone beneath. It took all of Benedictus's willpower to stay still. He could feel the rider's gaze upon him, and Benedictus thanked the gods that their shrieks had loosened the snow on the mountainside. That snow now buried him.

The griffin's talons hit the ground inches from him. One talon, long and sharp as a sword, pierced the snow near his eye. Old blood coated it.

"I told you," came the deep voice from farther away. "There's nobody here. Come on, we're wanted back by nightfall."

The griffin above Benedictus lingered a moment longer. Then its rider spat noisily, Benedictus heard jingling spurs, and the griffin's talon pulled out from the snow, missing Benedictus's face by a hair's length. The griffins took off, wings thudding.

Benedictus breathed a sigh of relief. He remained under the snow for several long moments, then dug himself out. He was now drenched and colder than ever. He watched the griffins disappear into the horizon.

Benedictus hugged himself, but found no warmth. He craved a fire, but dared not light one, and he doubted he'd find firewood here anyway. More than anything, he wanted to fly. In dragon form, he could be in Confutatis within a week, could storm the city and save Lacrimosa. But no. He dared fly no more; during his last flight griffins had attacked within moments. The beasts filled these skies, tens of thousands watching the world.

"Be strong, Lacrimosa," he whispered. He knew she was still alive. Dies Irae would not kill her, not when he could torture her, use her to lure Benedictus to him. It's me he wants most.

Benedictus kept walking, shoving aside snow with his arms. He thought of Agnus Dei and Kyrie. Where were they? Were they safe in the west? Were they flying out of Osanna, heading into the realms of myth where no griffins flew? Benedictus did not know. They could be dead.

He lowered his head, grief and fear pulsing through him. With clenched teeth, he kept moving.