DIES IRAE
When his hall's doors slammed open, and Gloriae limped in bloody and bruised, Dies Irae did not need to be told.
He knew at once.
Benedictus still lived.
"Daughter," he said, rising from his throne.
Dirt and blood covered Gloriae's breastplate. She dragged her left leg, which was a bloody mess. She carried her helmet under her arm, and her face was ashy, her hair tangled. As she limped across the marble tiles, her blood trickled. The lords and ladies of the court gasped and stared.
"Father," she said, limping toward his throne. "I would not rest. I come bearing news. Benedictus— he— he's—"
"He's alive," Dies Irae said, voice icy.
Gloriae nodded, panting. "He slew us all. My men. Our griffins. The boy Kyrie Eleison flies with him. Let us go. Now! On the hunt." She drew her sword, then wobbled. Dies Irae dashed forward and grabbed her, holding her up.
"Daughter," he said and caressed her cheek. She looked up at him, green eyes so large and beautiful. Dies Irae kissed her bloody forehead. "You are hurt. Come sit by my throne."
She nodded, and they walked across the hall. The nobles of the court stared silently, the light from the stained-glass windows glinting in their jewels.
Light filled his court this day, glistening upon these jewels, upon golden statues of his likeness, upon filigreed columns and chandeliers. This court was a place of beauty, of light and truth, of righteousness and splendor... but today it seemed dark to Dies Irae. All the gold and jewels in Osanna, his empire, could not light his eyes today.
He sat Gloriae on the stairs by Osanna's Ivory Throne. Servants rushed forward to bandage her leg, to pour wine into her mouth, to remove her bloodied armor. Dies Irae watched them work, then turned his gaze to his left arm, the deformity Benedictus had given him. And now... now Benedictus was back.
With sudden rage, Dies Irae grabbed his crystal goblet and tossed it with a howl.
The lord and ladies of his court, a hundred jeweled nobles, started and stared at their feet. Only Gloriae, the servants bandaging her leg, did not flinch. Blood speckled the marble stairs beneath her, and her eyes burned.
"You failed me," Dies Irae said to her. "You failed to kill him."
Her cheeks flushed, and for a moment Gloriae looked ready to scream. Then she lowered her eyes. "Forgive me, Father. I have failed you once, but I will not fail again. Let us fly on the hunt. I know where he is. We will find him. We will kill him. I will kill Kyrie Eleison, and you will kill Benedictus." She drew her sword with a hiss.
Dies Irae began to pace the hall. Around him the nobles spoke in hushed tones, daring not meet his eyes; a wrong glance now could kill them, they knew. Gloriae shoved away the servants tending to her, rose to her feet, and limped beside him. Pink splotches spread across her cheeks, and fire blazed in her eyes. Her hand trembled around the hilt of her sword.
"Is he plotting a return?" Dies Irae wondered aloud.
Gloriae spat onto the marble tiles. "He flies with the boy. The weredragons plan an attack against us, Father. They will gather more. They will fly upon this city."
Dies Irae nodded, the conviction growing in him, festering like a wound. "Yes, he will return now. If he found the boy, that will embolden him. Two weredragons? He will think it an army." He stared at his daughter. "Can you find the way back, Gloriae? We will kill him."
Gloriae snarled and placed her helmet on her head. "Yes, Father. Let us fly together. The boy gave me this wound. He is mine. You will kill the Black Fang."
Dies Irae nodded, fire growing in his belly. He clenched his good fist. Yes, I will find you, brother, and I will kill you. You have hidden from me for ten years. But you cannot hide any longer.
"There are more," Dies Irae said. "More weredragons. There have been sightings of a red one—a young dragon, female they think, slim and the color of blood. Villagers spotted her flying over the Fidelium mountains. And in the north, they speak of a silvery dragon, female too. Females can breed, Gloriae. They can fill Osanna with their spawn. I will not have my empire infested with new broods of these creatures."
Gloriae snarled and swung her sword. "I have killed their spawn before. If they breed, I will do so again."
Suddenly a lord burst forward, abandoning a group of ladies he had been courting. Dies Irae could not remember his name, but he was a pudgy man, balding, bluff and drunk. He wore a billowy fur coat and tunic to cover his girth, and wore a ruby ring on each finger.
"Bah, they cannot hurt you!" the lord blustered, cheeks red with wine. Sweat glistened on his brow. "My lord Dies Irae! You are powerful beyond measure. How can a handful of Vir Requis harm you?"
Gloriae gasped.
Silence filled the hall.
Dies Irae's jaw twitched.
For a long moment nobody spoke, and the lord stood teetering, nearly falling over drunk.
Finally Dies Irae broke the silence. He stared at this corpulent lord, fist clenched. "What did you call them?"
"Vir Requis, Vir Requis! Weredragons, whatever. Who cares? Call them what you like. They cannot harm us! Osanna is bold and strong." He drew his sword, swiped it so wide that Dies Irae had to leap back, and began singing a drunken war song.
When a guard stepped forward to grab him, the lord stumbled back, sputtering. "Unhand me, man!" he cried, grabbed a bottle of wine from a table, and drank deeply. "I am no woman for you to fondle. Let go!"
The guard shoved the man down, more guards stepped forward, and soon the large lord stood chained to a column. The other lords and ladies looked aside, too fearful to speak, to even look upon Dies Irae. They had seen too many chained to this column stained with old blood.
"Sun God," Gloriae said, blanching. She returned to the marble stairs leading to Dies Irae's throne, faced that throne, and clenched her fists.
A smile spreading across his lips, Dies Irae sat back on his throne. He watched as handlers brought in the griffin cubs. The young beasts—each the size of a horse—whimpered and screeched, claws clanking against the floor, beaks open in hunger. Their handlers kept them always famished, caged, dreaming of tearing their beaks into flesh.
"Watch, Gloriae," Dies Irae said softly. "I want you to see this."
Gloriae still faced the other way. "I do not wish to look upon this."
Dies Irae glared at her. "I command it. Watch, daughter. Watch every bite."
Gloriae turned, and when she saw the snapping griffin cubs, she shuddered. The chained drunkard was thrashing and screaming. His screams of terror soon turned to screams of pain. The lords and ladies watched, silent, as the griffin cubs feasted, as new blood stained the column.
"Sun God," Gloriae whispered again, staring with narrowed eyes. Her skin was ghostly white.
When the griffin cubs had finished their meal, gulping down the last bites, their handlers led them away. The drunk lord was now nothing but bones, skin, and blood against the column.
"These cubs will grow," Dies Irae said softly to Gloriae. His daughter looked ready to throw up. "In a few years, they will be fifty feet long, and fine fliers. And they will fly in a world without weredragons."
Gloriae nodded but said nothing. She was a fierce warrior, Dies Irae thought; he had raised her for fierceness, for cruelty. But he had not finished the job. He had not finished molding her. Some of life's harshness still frightened Gloriae, harshness like the justice he dealt in his court. But she would learn. He was a good teacher, and he would teach her, would kill all softness and mercy within her.
He rose from his throne, caressed Gloriae's hair, and kissed her head.
"Come, Gloriae," he said and began to walk across the hall, heading toward its doors. "My brother awaits. We head to the griffin stables. We fly."