KYRIE ELEISON
Kyrie was collecting firewood when he heard the griffins.
Five days had passed since he saw Benedictus shift, since he saw Black Fang—Benedictus in his dragon form, the beast that had led the Vir Requis to war, to their final stand at Lanburg Fields. Five days had passed in silence. Five days of collecting firewood, of sleeping on the ground, of trying to speak to the gruff man and hearing only silence.
Today shrieks broke this silence—the eagle shrieks that still haunted Kyrie's nightmares, the shrieks he'd heard the day Lady Mirum died.
He squinted, dropped the firewood, and saw them above.
They were close.
He had seen many griffins since his chase above the sea, but they had been distant. These ones flew just over the forest canopy. Kyrie could see their talons glint, their beaks snap, their armored riders scan the forest. They swooped, flew into the sky, looped, swooped again. They moved fast, blurred into streaks, wings churning the air. Their cries hurt Kyrie's ears.
"Damn it," he muttered and began to run back toward the hut, boots kicking up moss and dirt. He had to find Benedictus.
He stumbled over a tree root, almost fell, and managed to steady himself. He kept running, branches slapping his face. The griffins swooped. One's talons hit a treetop, and branches crashed behind Kyrie.
What if... I led them here?
A griffin swooped so close, Kyrie dropped down. The beast tore the canopy with its talons. Kyrie leaped up and ran from tree to tree, hiding under the foliage.
Ice filled his stomach. They could have seen me... last night.
Tears stung Kyrie's eyes. He couldn't have helped it. He'd had to turn into a dragon. Had to. It had been a month already. A Vir Requis needed to fly once a week; going longer could drive him mad, fill his blood with fire, make his fingers shake, his head ache. So he had shifted. He had flown. He had soared over the trees at night, streamed through the clouds, and let the cold air fill his maw. Did they see me then?
Talons tore down the tree before him. Kyrie found himself staring into a griffin's eyes.
He recognized its rider. She was a young woman, her gilded armor molded to the curve of her body. She wore white leggings, white gloves, and leather boots with steel tips. A helmet hid her face, but Kyrie could imagine those icy green eyes.
"Gloriae," he whispered.
For an instant the world froze.
Then Kyrie shouted, leaped up, and shifted.
A tail sprung from his back, wings unfurled, and blue scales flowed across him. His maw opened, full of sharp teeth, shooting flame at Gloriae.
Dragon and griffin soared into the sky, wreathed in fire.
Griffin talons shot out. Kyrie blocked them with his claws. He leaned in to bite, and his teeth closed around the griffin's neck. Gloriae screamed. Her lance stabbed Kyrie's shoulder, and he howled and blew flames.
Talons clutched his back. A second griffin landed on him, biting and clawing. Kyrie felt his blood flow, and he shouted and spewed fire, spinning above the trees, lashing his tail.
He beat off the second griffin, but he was hurt, maybe badly. He blew flames again; they roared around Gloriae's shield, staving her off. A quarrel zoomed. Gloriae was firing a crossbow, and the quarrel scratched Kyrie's belly. It was only a nick, but Kyrie felt the sting of ilbane, and he howled. The sun blinded him.
Talons scratched. Kyrie kicked, lashed his tail, and blew flames in all directions. Through the blinding light, light that shone against Gloriae's armor, Kyrie saw three more griffins swoop toward him.
For a second, Kyrie froze with horror. He saw his life like pictures in a book. His parents. His siblings. His old dog running through autumn leaves. And then his family dead, his house burned, Requiem Forest torched, columns shattered upon the ground. Lanburg Fields, and dead all around, and Lady Mirum lifting him. Fort Sanctus by the sea. Waves, salt, flights under stars over water.
And death.
Lady Mirum broken.
Griffins upon him, and claws, beaks, pain.
He tried to fight them off, but they were too many, and one griffin clutched his neck. Kyrie closed his eyes, prepared to die.
A roar shook the forest.
It was a thundering roar, impossibly deep, a roar like the darkest caves, the deepest tunnels. Kyrie opened his eyes and saw the great dragon, the Black Fang, the beast with the torn wing.
Benedictus crashed into the griffins, biting and clawing, knocking them off Kyrie. The black dragon's eyes blazed red, and fire burned from his maw.
Though bleeding, muzzy, and trembling, Kyrie cried in joy. "Benedictus flies!"
The sight of this legendary creature, its wings spread again, sent lightning through Kyrie. He soared with more passion and strength than he'd felt since Mirum died. He roared, shooting fire at the griffins who flew toward him. "And I fight alongside him!"
They fought. Two dragons. Five griffins and five more joining them from the eastern sky. Among swirling clouds and blazes of fire, the roars and shrieks rippling the air, they fought.
Four griffins latched onto Benedictus, clawing and scratching, their riders lashing spears. He was a large dragon—larger than Kyrie—burly and jagged, a few of his scales missing, a scar rending his breast. He was like Fort Sanctus, Kyrie thought—tough and proud, but old and rundown, years past his glory days. But he is still great; our greatest warrior, our greatest legend.
As this gnarled black beast roared and lashed his tail, Kyrie shot up. He crashed between three griffins, knocking them aside, and somersaulted.
"Benedictus, I'm here!" he cried, flew to the sun, then pulled his wings close. He swooped, whooping, and somersaulted again. He crashed into a griffin that clutched Benedictus's neck, knocking it off.
"Get out of here, kid," Benedictus growled, eyes blazing. His wing knocked a rider off a griffin. Blood coated his claws. "I'll take care of them. You go!"
Kyrie grunted and nodded. "I'll take a few off your back."
He swooped and flew over the canopy, letting the leaves skim his belly. When he turned his head, he glimpsed five griffins following him. Their riders shot quarrels, but Kyrie flew up and down, left and right, zipping around like a lightning bolt, and they could not hit him. When he saw an opening in the forest canopy, he dived and flew among the trees.
The griffins followed, through the canopy toward the forest floor. One slammed into an oak's trunk, and Kyrie whooped. He flew just over the ground, shooting between the tree trunks, spinning around boulders. Another griffin hit a tree. Another's talons hit a boulder, sending the griffin tumbling, tossing off its rider. Kyrie laughed and kept flying, and soon found himself over a forest pool. Two griffins still flew behind him, and he heard Benedictus roaring somewhere far behind, still fighting.
Grinning, Kyrie flew along the pool, and found himself before a cliff and waterfall. He turned his head, blew fire at the pursuing griffins, then flapped his wings hard. With a thundering cry, Kyrie shot toward the waterfall, then flew up the cascading water like a salmon. He emerged wet above the cliff, flew toward the sun, then swooped down upon the blinded, soggy griffins.
"Nobody," he roared, biting and clawing, "messes with Benedictus and Kyrie."
One griffin crashed dead into the water.
Only one griffin remained. The griffin bearing Gloriae.
Fury filled Kyrie, burning and red. He remembered how Gloriae had stood upon Fort Sanctus, a small smile on her lips, watching her father murder the Lady Mirum. He remembered the stories villagers would tell of her: How she had murdered a Vir Requis at age six, three more when she was eight. She's a demon bred for cruelty.
"I kill you now, Gloriae," he hissed.
Gloriae tilted her head. She pulled back her griffin, flew over the water, and landed on the forest floor.
"You kill me?" she cried. "You kill me, weredragon? Then face me as a human, not as the blue monstrosity you become." She dismounted her griffin, drew her sword, and stood golden in her armor.
The sounds of Benedictus's roars were far; he fought griffins half a league away. Kyrie was alone here, alone with Gloriae. He flew toward the ground where she stood. He shifted into human form while still flying, then landed on his feet before Gloriae, snarling.
"You want to duel?" he said, eyes narrowed, hair wet. "You got it." He drew his knife from his belt.
Gloriae laughed. He could not see her face—her visor hid it—but he could see her green eyes mocking him.
"Stupid boy," she said. "I will teach you some sense." She thrust her sword.
Kyrie realized that he was stupid. Gloriae wore armor and bore a sword. While Kyrie's clothes and knife could magically shift with him, that magic could not turn them into his own armor and sword. Stupid, yes; but the rage and horror made it impossible to think. Kyrie leaped sideways, dodging the sword, and thrust his knife. The knife hit Gloriae's breastplate, sending pain up Kyrie's arm, doing the girl no harm.
Gloriae laughed again, an icy trill. "Having fun, boy?" She swung her sword lazily, forcing Kyrie to duck. She's toying with me, Kyrie thought. She's having fun before she kills me.
"I'm having a blast," Kyrie said, eyes narrowed. He grabbed a rock and tossed it, but it only bounced off Gloriae's armor, not leaving a dent.
Gloriae took a step toward Kyrie, swiping her sword. The blade scratched Kyrie's arm, drawing blood, and Kyrie grunted. Pain burned.
"What was the girl's name?" Gloriae asked. She took another step toward Kyrie, swinging her sword, making Kyrie leap from side to side. "Lady... Mara? Mira? She was a sweet thing, was she not? Did you ever bed her, boy?" Her sword bit Kyrie's shoulder, a nick to fuel her amusement. "We did, as she lay with a bashed head, still twitching; she died there beneath us. Such a sweet thing, boy. I hope you tasted her. If not, you don't know what you missed."
She's trying to get me mad, Kyrie knew. She's lying. She's trying to enrage me. And it worked. Kyrie screamed and leaped forward. "You monster."
He swung his knife. Gloriae laughed and stepped aside, grabbed Kyrie, and shoved him. Kyrie stumbled and hit the ground, and Gloriae kicked his side. She kicked again. Kyrie grunted, pain filling him. Gloriae's sword flew down, and Kyrie rolled, barely dodging the blade.
"You are the monster," Gloriae said, eyes cold. She placed her boot upon Kyrie's neck, her sword on his chest. "Did you think you could beat me like this? As a human? You weredragons—your pride and honor were your undoing. It is so today too." With her free hand, Gloriae removed her helmet and shook her head, letting her hair fall loose. The golden locks shone, and Kyrie saw that angry pink patches spread across her pale cheeks. She gazed down upon him, eyes frozen. "Goodbye, Kyrie Eleison."
Gloriae raised her sword.
Kyrie shifted.
He ballooned in size, shooting up, his head growing scales and horns. Gloriae's sword bit, chipping his scales, scratching his flesh, and Kyrie's head slammed into her. The horn on his head slashed her thigh, and blood covered Kyrie's eyes. He roared and flew into the air. Gloriae's griffin shrieked, but Kyrie blew fire at it. It caught flame and writhed on the ground.
Kyrie plucked Gloriae off his horn and stared at her, disgusted. She was still alive, blood flowing down her leg. Her fists clenched and she grimaced.
"Honor?" Kyrie whispered, flapping his wings. The trees bent and rustled below him. "Pride? What would you know of such things? You'd be nothing but a spoiled girl were your father not Dies Irae. What do you know of the honor and pride of an ancient race, a magic that has flown over the world for millennia? Honor and pride could never undo us, Gloriae. Benedictus is back. We fly again."
He held her in his claws. Though her limbs shook and sweat beaded on her brow, Gloriae fixed him with a stare. Pain filled her eyes, but ice and determination too.
"Kill me then," she said. "Spare me your speeches and kill me. I am a mistress of steel. I am ready for death. I've lived my life to die in battle. Kill me, weredragon; I welcome it."
Suddenly Kyrie realized how young Gloriae was. Only a youth; not much older than him. What lies had Dies Irae told her? What cruelty had he inflicted upon her, to turn her into this heartless killer, this creature of hatred? She's only a girl, he thought, shaking his head. What kind of girl yearns to die in battle?
Kyrie felt his anger melting, replaced with pity. He had suffered in his childhood, Dies Irae hunting him. What would it be like to have Dies Irae as your father, to grow up in his hall? It sounded to Kyrie like a childhood infinitely worse than his own.
In his moment of hesitation, he barely saw her draw the vial.
She smashed it against his claws.
The glass shards stung him. More painful was the ilbane sap the vial had contained.
Kyrie roared, his claws burned, and he dropped Gloriae. She fell into the water below. Despite her wound, she began swimming away.
Kyrie wanted to follow, but the ilbane was like chains around him. He crashed into the pool, swallowed water, and floundered. His head spun and he could barely swim. Finally he crawled onto the bank, coughing, and looked around.
Gloriae was gone.
Kyrie howled. He tried to take flight, but his wings barely flapped. He spat and cursed. It was long moments before the pain of ilbane faded. When it did, Kyrie crashed through the treetops into the sky.
Where was Gloriae? Kyrie wanted to seek her, but griffins still filled the air. Three were attacking Benedictus in the distance. Three more flew toward Kyrie.
Forget Gloriae for now, he told himself. Benedictus needs me. Kyrie shot between clouds, tumbling and somersaulting. He flew with eyes narrowed, flew like never before, dazzling the griffins, spinning so fast, they barely knew where to follow. As he flew, he roared in pain and pride, for his king had returned.
Benedictus joined him. Together they fought. Blue dragon and black. Kyrie and Benedictus. Together they flew. One dragon slim, fast, dizzying; the other large, slow, his wing torn. Together they killed. Soon three griffins remained, then two, then one.
They killed the last griffin with fang and fire, then landed on the forest floor, wounded, panting, and victorious.
Kyrie shook with excitement. He turned back into human form. His knees wobbled, and the hatred for Gloriae, the thrill of the battle, and the pain of his wounds all throbbed in his head.
He faced Benedictus, who shifted back into human form too. The gruff man spat, breath heavy. Sweat drenched his graying curls, and his eyes seemed darker than ever.
"You were amazing," Kyrie said. "I've seen you fly before, at Lanburg Fields, but that was from a distance. To fight beside you... it was an honor." Before he realized what he was doing, Kyrie knelt; it felt right. "My king. You have returned, and you fly again."
Benedictus grunted. He grabbed Kyrie's shoulder and pulled him to his feet. "Get up," he said in disgust. For the first time, Kyrie heard him speaking Dragontongue. "I'm no king. That was a long time ago. Honor? Honor is dead, kid. I was amazing? I was slow. I was clumsy. I could barely fly with my torn wing. I probably would have died were you not here."
Kyrie felt himself glow. Pride welled up in him, like a torrent of water rising throughout his body. "Thank you." He wanted to say more, but found no words. His throat was tight.
Benedictus turned and walked toward a fallen log, rubbing his shoulder blade, the shoulder blade where his torn wing grew in dragon form. He sat down with a grunt. For the first time, Kyrie realized that Benedictus was aging. He was still closer to fifty than sixty perhaps, but not by much. Lines covered his brow, gray hairs filled his stubble, and his joints creaked. It had been ten years since Lanburg Fields, and those years had not been kind to Benedictus. The great King of Requiem moved slowly, grunted when he sat down on the log, and still panted and wiped sweat from his brow. He's four decades older than me, Kyrie realized, and he thinks his time is over. But it's not over yet. He still has some fight in him.
Kyrie sat down beside him, and for long moments, the two said nothing. Finally, when his breath had slowed and his sweat dried, Benedictus spoke in his low, gruff voice.
"I knew your parents, kid."
Kyrie spun his head toward him so fast, his neck hurt. "My parents?"
Benedictus nodded. "Aye. Your father was a bellator in my court. Do you know what that means? In our forests of Requiem, the bellators were our warriors of noble blood, commanders of our wings; like knights in the armies of Osanna. Your father was among the best I knew. I knew your mother too. I courted her once, but she chose your father instead." He chuckled—a deep, sad sound, lost in memories. He gazed into the trees, as if again seeing those marble tiles and columns that grew between the birches in Requiem's old courts.
"I... I didn't know. They died when I was six. I remember little. I never met another Vir Requis until I met you, not since Lanburg."
Benedictus rubbed his shoulder again and grimaced. His scar, peeking from under his shirt, seemed livid. "He was a proud warrior, your father. I fought with him. When Dies Irae killed your parents, I... that's when I gathered the last of us, that's when I marched to Lanburg Fields, to our final stand."
Kyrie felt his fingers tremble. He buried them in his pockets. "I thought my parents died at Lanburg Fields. I was there, but I don't remember much."
"They died a month before. Dies Irae murdered them. He torched their house and shot them when they fled. I'm sorry, kid. They were friends of mine. You survived. You were but a little one. We took you with us to Lanburg. We took all the orphans. There was nowhere to hide you, nowhere safe left in the burning world. You flew as warriors. I thought all the children had died." Benedictus's eyes were suddenly moist. "But you lived."
Kyrie bit his lip. His eyes were moist too, and he took short breaths, struggling to curb his tears. He could not cry before Benedictus, before his king. For the first time, Benedictus was talking about the past, speaking to him as an equal, and Kyrie's head spun.
Through clenched teeth, Kyrie said, "I will kill Dies Irae some day." He clutched Benedictus's shoulder and stared at him. "Fight with me, Benedictus. Fly with me again. Let us seek more Vir Requis. There are more. There must be more. Let us raise our banners, fly one more time, fight Dies Irae again. If we can grab the Griffin Heart, the griffins will fly with us. We can rebuild Requiem. We will speak the old words. I remember them." His voice shook, his body trembled, and tears flowed down his cheeks. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
The softness in Benedictus's eyes, that sadness of memory, died. At once his eyes were cold again, his face hard. He rose to his feet, shoving off Kyrie's arm. Once more he was Rex Tremendae, the hunter, the gruff man who knew nothing of "weredragons".
"Go home, Kyrie," he said and started walking away.
Kyrie leaped to his feet and began to follow. Griffin blood and feathers covered the forest floor. "I have no home."
Benedictus did not turn to look at him as he walked, boots crunching leaves. "So just go away."
Kyrie shook his head, eyes stinging, heart thrashing. "How can you still say this? After what just happened? I want to fight!"
Finally Benedictus looked at him, eyes blazing, deep and dangerous like demon caves. "You need to know how to fly, kid, if you want to fight Dies Irae."
Kyrie bristled. "I'm a great flier. Did you not just see that? Did you not see me shake off three griffins between the trees, shoot among them in the skies, blind them with sunlight, claw them as they wobbled around me?"
Benedictus spat again. His boots kept thumping, and he seemed not to notice the branches snagging him as he walked. "I saw a stunt show. You're a great showman, you are. Doing loops. Flying up and down like a bird. Are you a dragon, or are you a sparrow? You want to fight Irae, you better straighten out, lose your hotshot attitude, and learn to fly straight."
Kyrie felt mad enough to catch flame. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm his anger. "Will you teach me?" he said.
Benedictus grunted. "You will learn nothing. I've known young Vir Requis like you. Showoffs. Hotshots. We had a lot like you in the war. They fall from the sky faster than raindrops."
Kyrie struggled to keep up with Benedictus's long strides. Branches slapped him, smearing him with sap. "I won't fall so easily. Fly again, Benedictus. Fly against Dies Irae like in the old days."
Benedictus stopped walking and spun toward Kyrie, glaring. "The old days are gone," he growled, voice so loud that birds fled. "My wing is torn. I can barely fly straight these days. I could barely beat those griffins. I'm old and wounded, and I'm tired. It's over, kid."
Kyrie shook his head in disbelief. How could Benedictus say this? How could their great king, the Vir Requis who had killed so many griffins, speak this way?
"But don't you hate Irae?"
In a flash, so fast Kyrie could not react, Benedictus grabbed Kyrie's throat and slammed him against a tree. Kyrie could not breathe, could not struggle, could not move, could only stare at Benedictus's burning eyes. Stars floated around him, and he thought he would die.
"Dies Irae kidnapped my daughter," Benedictus said, voice cold, his fingers tight around Kyrie's throat. "I hate him more than you can imagine. You cannot know how I feel."
Kyrie could not breathe. He could barely speak. Sure he would pass out any second, he managed to whisper hoarsely. "He murdered my family. I know exactly how you feel."
Benedictus let go. Kyrie fell to the ground, clutching his throat, taking ragged breaths. Stars still floated before his eyes.
"I want you gone by tomorrow," Benedictus said, walking away into the trees, leaving Kyrie gasping and coughing on the ground. "I told you. The war is over."