KYRIE ELEISON
As Kyrie traveled the land by foot, he learned something new about himself.
He hated walking.
Loathed it.
A blister grew on his right heel, two on his left. He didn't even know which foot to limp on. He had stubbed two toes against a root a league back, and the nails were turning black. Disgusting, he thought. His legs ached, and his wounded chest burned. His back also screamed.
He spoke between gritted teeth to the surrounding trees. "I. Hate. Walking."
He wanted to fly—to turn into a dragon, flap his wings, feel the rush of air, the power. That was the way to travel. But not today. Nor for the past month he'd spent walking in human form.
Flying, he knew, was just too dangerous.
Dies Irae was after him. Kyrie had seen parchments posted upon roadside taverns, crossroad signs, even the occasional oak. "Weredragon at large! Kyrie Eleison, escaped monster, transforms into a blue reptile. Bring dead or alive to the nearest Sun God temple for reward."
Kyrie snorted whenever he saw the posters. The crude drawing of a dragon was laughable; it showed him clutching a maiden in each hand, toppling a house with his tail, and chomping a baby. Ridiculous. If anyone ate babies, it was the beautiful and icy Gloriae; the young woman seemed just vicious enough.
Laughable as the poster was, Kyrie still dared not fly. Not with griffins patrolling the skies. An hour did not pass without Kyrie hearing a distant griffin cry. Several times a day, he saw them too, like eagles high above. And he knew they were looking for him.
Indeed, as Kyrie now limped on his blisters, more shrieks sounded above. Griffins. Three or four, by the sound of it. With a grunt, Kyrie dived into a leafy bush. He saw the griffins between the branches, talons like swords. Did Dies Irae ride one? The griffins shrieked again, then were gone, flying into the distance.
Kyrie sighed and climbed out from the leaves. He sat down on a fallen log and gazed around him. The forest was thick, and Kyrie couldn't see more than a few yards in each direction. Oak, birch, and ash trees grew here, and most seemed centuries old, thick and knotty. Their leaves rustled, scattering motes of light. Fallen logs crisscrossed around him, covered with moss and mushrooms.
"What am I even doing here?" he asked aloud.
Nobody answered but chirping birds, pattering squirrels, and rustling leaves. There was nobody here. Nobody in the entire forest.
Benedictus is dead, he told himself. I'll never find him here. I'm the last Vir Requis. And once those griffins catch me, I too will die.
Kyrie suddenly felt hot, his blood boiling. He wanted to scream, but dared not. Instead he gritted his teeth and punched a tree trunk. It hurt. Good. Physical pain could drown anguish. Pain was easier than anguish.
"That bloody, stupid, cursed map," Kyrie said and spat.
Breathing hard, he pulled the rolled up map from his belt. The parchment was old, cracked, and burned in one corner. The sea had soaked it, leaving it wrinkled. For five years, he'd carried it on his belt, refusing to shelf or box it. For five years, it had been his hope.
But the map couldn't be real. It too was just a child's dream. Wasn't it?
Kyrie unrolled the parchment. The ink was faded and smudged, but Kyrie had examined this map so many times, he could read it with eyes shut. He had found the parchment when he was eleven. An old peddler had ridden his donkey to Fort Sanctus, his cart overflowing with trinkets. Mirum bought a pan, tea leaves, and a necklace of agate stones. Kyrie wanted to buy a knife with a horn handle, but then saw a pile of scrolls. Fort Sanctus had a few scrolls in the basement; some contained prayers to the old Earth God, others epic poems of legends. Kyrie loved reading them, especially the poems. Most of the peddler's scrolls contained prayers to the new, cruel Sun God, but a few featured maps. And one map—the smallest, most tattered one—made Kyrie's heart skip.
The map showed a mountain, a river, and forest. It marked several villages and a cave. A road led between a castle and a port, and several roads led to towns. It was a map for peddlers, but Kyrie didn't care for its trade routes. What caught his eye was the map's corner, where Hostias Forest lay. Above that forest, smaller than his fingertip, appeared a picture of a black dragon. "Beware," was written over the drawing, "the black fangs."
A black dragon. Fangs.
Benedictus.
Kyrie had bought the map, the knife with the horn grip forgotten. Gasping, he'd shown it to Mirum, talked about it all day, told her that this map showed the location of Benedictus, the legend, the king in exile.
"Kyrie," Mirum would say, "it might be only a decoration, a scribble. It might mean nothing. And the map might be old, drawn when many dragons filled the land."
Kyrie would shake his head. "No. It's Benedictus. I know it."
Mirum would sigh, say nothing more, and ignore the parchment that forever hung at Kyrie's side. She let him believe, Kyrie knew, because she wanted him to have hope, to have a dream, to feel he wasn't the only one. For years, Kyrie clung to that dream, knew that Benedictus still lived, that somewhere there were others like him. Others who could turn into dragons. Others who were hunted, who hid, who remembered Requiem. Others who could some day come together, raise their race from hiding, and once more find the skies.
But standing here in the forest, wounded, hungry, hunted... it was hard to believe. Things were so different now. He had followed the map here, to this forest, to this corner where black fangs should bite. And what did he find? Birds. Squirrels. Shattered dreams.
"Damn it!" Kyrie suddenly shouted, not caring if griffins heard. He no longer cared about anything, and he pounded the tree again. Fingers shaking, he tore the map to shreds. "Damn Dies Irae, and damn Benedictus."
He stood panting, leaning against the tree, eyes shut... when a voice spoke.
"And damn loud, bratty kids scaring away deer."
Kyrie froze, then spun around, eyes opening.
A man stood before him.
Kyrie breathed in hard, fighting the urge to become a dragon, to attack or flee. This man was trouble; Kyrie could smell the stink of danger on him.
"What do you want?" Kyrie demanded, eyes narrow.
The man spat and growled. "For you to shut up. I was just about to shoot a stag, and you scared him off. How about you keep your trap shut, or go whine in somebody else's forest?"
The man wore ragged furs and carried a bow. A quiver hung over his back, full of stone-tipped arrows. He looked familiar, though Kyrie couldn't remember where he'd seen him. He seemed to be in his fifties, his face weathered like old leather. His hair was black and shaggy, strewn with gray, and his eyebrows were thick. His eyes were dark and piercing, two burning coals.
"It's not your forest," Kyrie said, anger bubbling in him. "You look like a common woodsman—or outlaw, more likely. You don't own this place, so bugger off."
Kyrie instantly regretted those words. The man took a step forward, and Kyrie suddenly realized how tall and powerful he was. He was perhaps forty years older than Kyrie, but all muscle and grit. A scar ran along his cheek, and another scar peeked from under his collar. In some ways, this ragged man, with his furs and arrows, seemed even more dangerous than Dies Irae with all his armor and griffins.
"If you don't shut your mouth," the man growled, "I'll punch the teeth out of it."
Then Kyrie realized why the man looked familiar. He looked liked Dies Irae, cold and hard and dangerous. Only Irae is blond and golden like the sun, Kyrie thought, and this man is dark as midnight. They had the same brow. The same strong, straight nose. The same... aura, an aura of pride and power.
Kyrie's heart leaped.
"Benedictus," he whispered. "It's you." His fingers trembled, and he took fast breaths. "You're Dies Irae's brother. Benedictus the Black." His head spun, and words spilled from his mouth. "You can help me! You can fly with me against Dies Irae, steal his Griffin Heart, and defeat him."
The man stared at Kyrie as one would stare at the village idiot. He spat again. "What's wrong with you, kid? I don't know no Irae. Don't know no Benedictus. My name's Rex Tremendae. Now get out of my forest, or I'll stick one of these arrows in your throat."