Read Online A Night of Dragon Wings by Daniel Arenson - Free Book Online
Authors: Daniel Arenson
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of, a pillar of marble and light rising from ruin. She prayed to the spirits of her parents, her fallen brother Orin, and all those who had died around her in Nova Vita.
"Look after me, dragons of starlight," she whispered through cracked lips. Her voice was weak and hoarse, the voice of a ghost. "I will soon fly by your side."
Her head spun, and she felt unconsciousness clutching at her. She had fainted so many times here in darkness as hunger twisted her belly, as blood seeped down her back to trickle around her feet. In her long dark dreams, she kept seeing it again and again: Solina slicing her brother open, Solina slaying children underground, Solina toppling the city Mori had loved. And she dreamed of Bayrin: her sweet, strong Bayrin, the love of her life, flying bloodied and scarred in battle, surrounded by wyverns.
Do you still live, Bayrin? Do you dream of me too?
Worse than the hunger, worse than the whips, worse than the darkness, was Mori's worry for them. Did Elethor still fly? What of her friends Lyana and Treale and all the others? Did any Vir Requis still live, or was she the last, a lingering relic of Requiem's glory, a princess shriveled into an emaciated wretch?
She swallowed a lump in her throat, twisted her fingers, and struggled to stay conscious. Keeping her eyes open was so hard here in the dark. They gave her no light in this chamber of craggy bricks, rusted iron, and blood. Torches flickered outside the door; what red light seeped around the doorframe was all she had. It was enough for her to witness her decay. Her knees were knobby now, and her thighs, which she had once thought far too rounded for Bayrin to like, now seemed skeletal to her. She wore only a tattered rag, and through it she could see her bones thrusting against her skin.
How many days had passed since they'd last whipped her? Mori did not know. Three? Ten? Days and nights lost all meaning here in the dark. Sometimes it seemed hours between the meals they fed her—cold gruel thrust roughly into her mouth with a splintered spoon. Sometimes it seemed days went by without food, and her head swam and her belly clenched before more gruel arrived. When the moon ended, they would drag her out again, and the sunlight would burn and blind her, and the whips would tear her skin.
Footsteps thumped outside the door. Shadows stirred. Keys rattled in the lock, and when the door creaked open, torchlight flared. Mori whimpered and looked away, the light blinding her. How long had she sat here in darkness, alone? It felt like ages.
"Meal time," rumbled her jailor. "You no spit up this time, lizard whore, or Sharik cram it back into your mouth."
Mori blinked, raised her head, and winced in the torchlight. Sharik, the brutish jailor, stood above her. He looked more troll than man, wide and pasty and lumpy like a bag of spoiled milk. He wore but a canvas tunic, barely better than her own rags, and carried a ring of keys on his belt. He held a club in one hand, a wooden bowl in the other.
Mori did not want to eat. The gray slop he fed her, full of lumps and hairs, left her stomach churning and her limbs shaking.
"I'm… I'm not hungry," she whispered.
Sharik grumbled and raised his club. "Club or spoon. Your choice, weredragon."
He slammed down that club now, rapping her hard on the shoulder. Mori winced, pain pounding through her. Sharik knelt, dug his spoon into the gruel, and held it out. The slop trembled, gelatinous and sludgy. Sharik glared at her above the bowl. His eyes were beady and red, moles covered his face, and stench wafted between his rotting teeth. Hairs filled his red, veined nose.
"I—" Mori began.
With a grumble, Sharik dropped his club and grabbed her jaw. His fingers, fat and pale as raw sausages, dug into her, forcing her mouth open. She gasped and sputtered. He shoved the bowl forward, slamming its edge against her teeth, and
"Look after me, dragons of starlight," she whispered through cracked lips. Her voice was weak and hoarse, the voice of a ghost. "I will soon fly by your side."
Her head spun, and she felt unconsciousness clutching at her. She had fainted so many times here in darkness as hunger twisted her belly, as blood seeped down her back to trickle around her feet. In her long dark dreams, she kept seeing it again and again: Solina slicing her brother open, Solina slaying children underground, Solina toppling the city Mori had loved. And she dreamed of Bayrin: her sweet, strong Bayrin, the love of her life, flying bloodied and scarred in battle, surrounded by wyverns.
Do you still live, Bayrin? Do you dream of me too?
Worse than the hunger, worse than the whips, worse than the darkness, was Mori's worry for them. Did Elethor still fly? What of her friends Lyana and Treale and all the others? Did any Vir Requis still live, or was she the last, a lingering relic of Requiem's glory, a princess shriveled into an emaciated wretch?
She swallowed a lump in her throat, twisted her fingers, and struggled to stay conscious. Keeping her eyes open was so hard here in the dark. They gave her no light in this chamber of craggy bricks, rusted iron, and blood. Torches flickered outside the door; what red light seeped around the doorframe was all she had. It was enough for her to witness her decay. Her knees were knobby now, and her thighs, which she had once thought far too rounded for Bayrin to like, now seemed skeletal to her. She wore only a tattered rag, and through it she could see her bones thrusting against her skin.
How many days had passed since they'd last whipped her? Mori did not know. Three? Ten? Days and nights lost all meaning here in the dark. Sometimes it seemed hours between the meals they fed her—cold gruel thrust roughly into her mouth with a splintered spoon. Sometimes it seemed days went by without food, and her head swam and her belly clenched before more gruel arrived. When the moon ended, they would drag her out again, and the sunlight would burn and blind her, and the whips would tear her skin.
Footsteps thumped outside the door. Shadows stirred. Keys rattled in the lock, and when the door creaked open, torchlight flared. Mori whimpered and looked away, the light blinding her. How long had she sat here in darkness, alone? It felt like ages.
"Meal time," rumbled her jailor. "You no spit up this time, lizard whore, or Sharik cram it back into your mouth."
Mori blinked, raised her head, and winced in the torchlight. Sharik, the brutish jailor, stood above her. He looked more troll than man, wide and pasty and lumpy like a bag of spoiled milk. He wore but a canvas tunic, barely better than her own rags, and carried a ring of keys on his belt. He held a club in one hand, a wooden bowl in the other.
Mori did not want to eat. The gray slop he fed her, full of lumps and hairs, left her stomach churning and her limbs shaking.
"I'm… I'm not hungry," she whispered.
Sharik grumbled and raised his club. "Club or spoon. Your choice, weredragon."
He slammed down that club now, rapping her hard on the shoulder. Mori winced, pain pounding through her. Sharik knelt, dug his spoon into the gruel, and held it out. The slop trembled, gelatinous and sludgy. Sharik glared at her above the bowl. His eyes were beady and red, moles covered his face, and stench wafted between his rotting teeth. Hairs filled his red, veined nose.
"I—" Mori began.
With a grumble, Sharik dropped his club and grabbed her jaw. His fingers, fat and pale as raw sausages, dug into her, forcing her mouth open. She gasped and sputtered. He shoved the bowl forward, slamming its edge against her teeth, and
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