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, 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 flames, 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.
Beat that, 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, canyons of foaming sea. Rising from crashing waves, the rocks looked like forts, with pillars and bridges and tunnels, battlements of some forgotten water gods. The sea roared between the pillars, through the 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.
Shrieks sounded above him. Kyrie raised his head and saw the griffins swooping from the clouds, talons outstretched, beaks open.
Damn it.
Kyrie veered aside, but a griffin clawed his leg, drawing blood. Cursing, Kyrie shot into the clouds again. The griffins followed. He dived to the sea, but another almost clawed him. A third flew from below, and Kyrie swiveled, dodging it, then spun again, just missing another griffin. They surrounded him.
Damn the stars!
Kyrie blew fire. The griffin ahead swerved, dodging the flames. Kyrie swooped, zoomed by it, almost hit the water, then straightened himself to skim over the waves. The boulders rose around him, black and jagged, and one almost hit his shoulder. Waves and foam brushed his belly.
You're fast bastards, he thought, but let's see you maneuver.
Stone walls rose ahead, a canyon between them, barely wider than his body. Kyrie flew into the canyon, the walls rushing by his sides. The sea roared below, spraying him with foam, and he could barely see the sky. Screeches came behind him, and when Kyrie glanced over his shoulder, he saw the griffins follow him into the canyon.
Rocks jutted out from the cliff sides, and Kyrie flew up and down, dodging them. He snaked around boulders like liquid silver streaming through a labyrinth. Fire pumped through him, and despite the danger and anguish, Kyrie grinned over gritted teeth. This was what he'd been born for. This was flying. In some places, the canyon walls met above him, forming tunnels. One tunnel was so low, Kyrie's belly grazed the sea as he flew. A thud came behind him, followed by a shriek of pain.
"Having fun, girls?" Kyrie shouted over his shoulder, and saw that one griffin was hurt, its shoulder bleeding. Kyrie grinned and kept flapping his wings, which was hard to do in a tunnel this narrow. His heart raced. I was made for this.
Suddenly the canyon curved, and Kyrie made a sharp turn. His shoulder grazed the stone wall, and he grunted, but he made the turn with nothing but a scratch. Behind him came a thud, a shriek, and a rider's cry; one griffin at least had not made the turn. Kyrie kept flying. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that the wounded griffin was gone. So was its rider, the gaunt Lord Molok. Kyrie hoped he was dead.
The canyon ended, the walls giving way to a network of jagged pillars. Some met above him, crisscrossing, molded together. Kyrie flew up and down, left and right, moving between the pillars at top speed. Around one column, a boulder rose from the waves, and Kyrie shot straight up, under an overhanging stone, left around another column, and quickly down into a tunnel.
Damn, he thought, then heard a crash behind him. A second griffin was gone. Its rider, the beautiful and icy Gloriae, crashed into the water.
One griffin remained now, and one rider.
Dies Irae.
The man who'd killed Mirum.
Kyrie grunted. Now we're even.
Flying between the stone boulders, he spun to face Dies Irae on his griffin. He howled and blew fire.
The flames roared, and the griffin rose, dodging the fire, but hit an overhanging arch of stone. The beast screeched, and Kyrie shot forward, claws slashing.
Dies Irae pulled the reins, and his griffin bucked, raising its talons. Kyrie's claws hit the griffin's leg, drawing blood. The griffin reached out to bite, but Kyrie was too fast. He dodged the beast, then lashed his spiked tail.
He hit Dies Irae, cracking his armor. Blood seeped from the steel. More blood flowed down the griffin's flanks. Kyrie growled.
"You're dead now, Irae," he said. Smoke rose from his nostrils. "You killed Mirum. You killed my family. And now I'm going to kill you."
He sucked in air, prepared to blow flames and roast the glittering, one-armed lord.
Dies Irae raised a crossbow.
So fast Kyrie barely saw it, a quarrel flew. It slammed into Kyrie's chest.
Kyrie howled. Pain bloomed, twisting and sizzling. He knew that pain. Ilbane. The quarrel was coated with the poison.
Kyrie gritted his teeth. No! No. This does not end here. He blew fire.
The flames roared, hit the griffin, and its fur kindled. It screeched, and Kyrie tried to fly toward it, to claw it apart, to crush Dies Irae, but his wings felt stiff. He could barely fly. He dipped several yards.
A second quarrel flew.
Wings aching, pain blazing, Kyrie managed to flap aside. The quarrel scratched his shoulder, tearing off a scale, burning. Kyrie roared. He felt ready to pass out, but he mustered every last bit of rage, horror, and hatred in him, and he shot forward.
For Mirum. For my father, mother, brothers, and sisters. For ten years of hiding in stinking barrels. He opened his maw, howling, prepared to bite off Dies Irae's head.
For an instant, his eyes locked with Dies Irae's stare. The man's eyes blazed. He seemed full of so much hate, so much pain, that Kyrie nearly faltered. What was it? What caused the man to hate Vir Requis so much?
It happened so fast, Kyrie barely registered it. Dies Irae tugged the reins, and the griffin shot up.
No! Kyrie tried to follow. He flapped his wings, but felt so heavy. The griffin was shooting into the skies. It was getting away.
"Come back here, coward!" Kyrie howled. He blew fire, but his flames felt weak. They could not reach the griffin, who was only a distant spot now.
A third quarrel came zooming down. Kyrie spun aside, and the bolt missed him. He flew higher and higher, and his head exploded with pain.
"Irae, come back here and finish what you started!" he cried, then shut his eyes with pain. He dipped a hundred yards, another hundred. Another quarrel flew. It sank into his shoulder, and he screamed. He fell. He crashed into the sea. His wings would no longer move, and his muscles ached. Waves roared around him, icy cold, and water filled his mouth. He swam toward a boulder that rose from the waves, clutched it, and climbed onto it.
He became human again.
He clung to the rock, shivering. His shoulder and chest bled, and the ilbane coursed through him. It wouldn't kill him, he knew. He remembered what Dies Irae had said; the stuff was not lethal, but it burned. Worse than the pain was his grief.
Dies Irae had gotten away—gone to fetch more griffins, no doubt. The man was a coward. And....
Kyrie lowered his head. He tasted salt on his lips, and didn't know if it was from the sea, or his tears. Mirum. His best friend, the light of his life. Mirum was dead.
A wave washed over him, and Kyrie barely held onto the boulder. His clothes, which had shifted with him, now clung to him, cold and wet. His veins felt full of lava, and his head felt ready to crack. The waves kept pounding him. He looked around, but saw only furious water, jagged rocks, and pillars of stone. He was a hundred leagues away from shelter, from civilization, from life. He was stuck here on this jagged rock, shivering, bleeding, maybe dying. More griffins would arrive any moment. The waves roared so loudly, his ears ached.
Kyrie lowered his head against the stone. He closed his eyes. It cannot end here. I cannot die here like this. Not now.
He took a deep breath, lungs aching. With trembling fingers, he felt for the parchment map. It was still there, hanging from his belt. It was soaked, but it was still there.
There was only one thing to do now, Kyrie knew. It was a crazy quest, a fool's quest. The chase of a myth. But Kyrie knew it was the only path he could now follow.
He must find him.
He must still live... somewhere.
Kyrie nodded. He would seek Benedictus.