Requiem's Hope (Dawn of Dragons)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Enough!" She glared at Maev and Dorvin in turn. "Demons scour the world to slay us. Let us not do their job for them. We've lingered here long enough and we must move. With every breath danger draws nearer." The druid took a few steps back and shifted, becoming a slim dragon, her scales the same lavender as her robes. She beat her wings and took flight. "Dorvin! Maev! Save your strength for the demons. Now come, we fly."

  With that, the lavender dragon began flying west, leaving a trail of smoke.

  Still standing below, Dorvin gave Maev a wink, a crooked smile, and a nudge from his elbow. "See if you can catch up, Mammoth Arse." He leaped into the air, became a silver dragon, and flew after his sister.

  Maev felt like she didn't even have to turn into a dragon to blast out smoke. Mammoth arse! She would shove him up the next mammoth arse they crossed. She made to leap up, shift into a dragon, and chase the damn boy and his starry-eyed sister, but her eyes fell upon her father, and she paused. All day, Jeid had been stern and somber, yet now he seemed . . . Maev tilted her head.

  He seems afraid.

  She stared at him, her rage leaving her. She had never seen her father look afraid before. She hadn't known he could feel fear. She had seen him in mourning when Mother had died, then when Requiem—little Requiem after whom their kingdom was named—had died too. But not fear. And now she saw it in the stoop of his shoulders, the ghosts in his eyes, the tightness of his lips. Her anger left her, and she hugged him.

  "Goodbye, Grizzly. I'll look after the pups."

  Her brother approached slowly, hesitating. Maev had spent her life thinking Tanin a soft-headed fool, but now, with the world collapsing around her, she loved him so fully her chest ached. She stepped toward him and pulled him into a crushing hug, then rubbed her knuckles across his head.

  "Be strong, Tanin," she said. "Don't be a halfwit. And try not to step on your tongue whenever you look at Issari." She punched his chest. "I won't be there to look after you for a while, so you better not mess things up."

  He rubbed his chest, wincing. "I'll miss you too, Maev." He lowered his voice. "I love you, you warthog."

  She wanted to say more. She wanted to embrace her father and brother again, to tell them she loved them, but her eyes stung, and her voice caught in her throat, and she dared not show them weakness. She spun around, shifted into a dragon, and took flight.

  "Wait up, pups!" she shouted. Dorvin and Alina were flying ahead, silver and lavender, already distant

  Dorvin looked over his shoulder at her. "Fly faster, Mammoth Arse!" He blasted flames her way, then turned back forward and kept flying.

  "Shut your mouth, Dung Beetle!" Maev beat her wings and flew faster. She looked back only once and saw other dragons taking flight around King's Column. Then she returned her eyes westward, sucked in air, and vowed that if any others existed in this world, she would find them. She would bring them home.

  TANIN

  The two dragons flew south, red and white, traveling over the ruin of the world.

  "A scar rifts the land," Tanin said.

  Gliding beside him, the white dragon lowered her head. "The wounds he gave me scar my body." Issari took a shaky breath. "And the wound he gave the world will perhaps forever mar this land."

  A line of devastation covered the landscape, coiling from the south like the path of a parasite through a heart. The demon army had flown here, raining its rot, wilting the land. Trees stooped, white and frail as starved corpses. The earth had turned a charcoal color, and globs of red grew upon it like warts. Animals moved along this unholy path, deformed under its curse, twisted beings with many limbs, their eyes bloated and bulging from their sockets, their entrails dragging behind them like clinging lampreys. The creatures wailed up at the flying dragons, hissing, weeping, begging for death. A stench of rot flared, and when Tanin and Issari flew directly over the path, the miasma made them gag. They banked eastward, keeping the living land directly beneath them, but always they gazed upon that cursed line in the west.

  "This is what Requiem will look like if my father wins," Issari said. The white dragon stretched her wings wide, gliding on the wind current. "Already Eteer has fallen to this evil." She looked at Tanin, green eyes wide and wet. "We have to stop him, Tanin. We have to take over his throne."

  Whimpers sounded below, and Tanin looked back down at the coiling path of the Abyss. Small creatures moved there, raising their hands, pleading. They had the bodies of dogs, but their heads were human heads, bloated and pale like corpses. They yowled wordlessly, but Tanin thought he heard words in the senseless mewling.

  "Pleee . . .," they seemed to beg. "Pleee . . . kell . . . kell us . . ."

  Tanin shook his head wildly, swallowing down his disgust. He flew on, pity roiling his belly, leaving the creatures behind upon the path. Soon their wails faded, but as he flew, Tanin's heart wouldn't unwind, and his chest felt so tight he could barely breathe. Had those things been demons, animals, or . . . humans?

  Please . . . kill us . . .

  An image shot through his mind: his family twisted into creatures too, wailing upon a ruined path, begging him for death he would not grant them. In his vision, Issari pleaded among them. She had the same delicate, beautiful face, her skin olive toned, her eyes green, her braid black, but her body was the body of a centipede, thrashing, pattering its feet, and—

  No.

  He snarled and flew on, banishing those visions. He looked at Issari again, soaking up the beauty of her glimmering scales, small horns, and long claws. She was beautiful and pure—both as a human and dragon. He vowed that he would never let her fall.

  "How will we do this, Issari?" he asked. "How will we take over the throne, and how will we summon back the demons?"

  Fire flickered between her teeth. "Eteer lies in ruin; its people hold my father no love. When I would walk through the city, saving those I could, I heard nothing but hatred for Raem. As he flies north, I will march into his palace. I will sit upon his throne. If his soldiers too mourn the destruction of their kingdom, they will obey me. And so will Angel."

  Tanin shuddered to remember Angel, the Queen of Demons. "Does she fly with this army too, seeking Requiem?"

  Eyes dark, Issari shook her head. "The Queen of Devilry remains in Eteer, sitting upon the throne until my father returns. She will serve whoever rules Eteer—my father now, me if I can claim the kingdom. It is her we must dethrone. It is her we must tame."

  Belly knotting, Tanin looked down at Issari's front foot. The amulet of Taal was fused with the flesh, a remnant of Issari's battle with the Demon Queen. His own body still bore the scars of his last encounter with the demon.

  So we will battle again, Angel. And this time we will tame you.

  He had a thousand more questions, and he was about to ask them all, when he saw the village below.

  Or at least, what was left of the village. The settlement lay within the dark path, as wilted and ruined as the land around it. Huts lay smashed. Globs of demon drool covered the fields. Bones and gobbets of flesh lay in the village square, the animal pen, and the fields, and demon dung steamed in piles. Tanin wanted to fly away, to keep following the path south to the sea, but when he heard the wail his heart froze.

  This was no demon voice. A human was crying out below.

  He narrowed his eyes, sucked in breath, and dipped a little lower in the sky.

  He heard the voice again, weak and pleading, growing weaker by the word. "Help. Help. Please."

  After a glance at each other, the two dragons began to descend toward the ruined village. Tanin wrinkled his snout at the stench; it smelled like rotted meat, blood, and worms. He nearly gagged to see human skeletons litter the place, shreds of meat still clinging to bones. A flock of vultures were pecking at the remains, picking off what the demons had not consumed. A few vultures fled at the sight of the dragons; others were too busy fighting over a ribcage. The huts lay smashed around them, containing more remains, and everywhere spread puddles of demon drool.
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br />   "Help . . . please . . ."

  The voice came from behind a few ruined huts. Tanin landed, returned to human form, and gestured at Issari. She resumed human form too and raised her palm, shining out the light of her amulet. They walked between skeletons, fallen chunks of clay walls, and toppled fences, following the cry. Tanin drew his dagger, prepared to fight any demon that might approach. A memory of the creatures on the path returned to him, deformed animals pleading for death.

  Around a fallen brick wall—perhaps an old smithy—he saw her.

  Tanin's heart wrenched and ice flooded his belly. At his side, Issari gasped and clutched his hand.

  She was young, no older than ten, a little girl lying in the dust. Her lips trembled as she gasped for breath, her skin was ashen, and blood stained her blue dress and dark hair. Her entrails dangled out from her slashed belly, hanging down to the ground. She clutched the wound as if she could still survive, still stop the trickle of life. She met Tanin's gaze.

  "They hurt me," she whispered. "I hid in the cellar. They're gone now. Please. Help. Help me."

  Issari raced toward the girl, placed a cloak upon her, and stroked her hair, whispering softly.

  She's dead already, Tanin knew, frozen in place, frozen in fear. It might happen today, maybe tomorrow, but she's dead already.

  When Issari looked back at him, Tanin saw the same knowledge in her eyes.

  He thought back again to the miserable creatures on the path. Kill us, they had pleaded. Kill us. Looking at this girl now, Tanin heard their voices again in his mind.

  She's dead already. His knees felt weak. I have to do it. Painlessly. To stab her head. A quick blow. Maybe to burn her with fire. The girl began to tremble violently, to weep, and Tanin winced, wanting to do it, to end her suffering. It was the moral choice, he knew. She was dead already. Dead already.

  But he could not.

  He sat by the girl with Issari, and he held her hand, and he stroked her cheek.

  "Sleep, child," he whispered to her.

  But she only screamed.

  She screamed all that day and into the night, and with every scream Tanin hated himself, knew he was weak, and wanted to do it, to end her pain. But still he could not. And she wept as the dawn rose again.

  It was noon when she finally died.

  She died in Issari's arms, finally at peace.

  "We'll bury her outside the village," Tanin said, voice choked. "Outside this path of disease. In a beautiful place in the shade of trees."

  He draped his cloak over the body and carried it through the village. Issari walked at his side, her head lowered, a single tear on her cheek. They moved between the ravaged huts, the bones, the puddles of blood, heading past wilted trees toward the living forest that grew beyond.

  There, on the border between life and death, the creature awaited them.

  The demon lay against the trees, it legs cut off, bones thrusting out from blue flesh. Arrows pierced its gray, warty skin, and its heart pulsed within an open wound. The creature seemed too weak to rise; it could only hiss at them. Blood stained its maw, and between its teeth lay shreds of blue cotton.

  Tanin looked down at the body in his arms. The girl wore a dress of the same blue fabric.

  Gently, Tanin placed the little girl's body down, straightened, and drew his dagger. With a hoarse cry, he leaped onto the demon. The creature bucked, snapped its teeth, lashed its claws, trying to resist, but Tanin fought in a fury, stabbing, screaming, tearing into its flesh, driving his blade again and again into its head. Blood splattered him, and the creature fell dead, and still Tanin stabbed, his body shaking.

  "Tanin." Issari's soft voice rose behind him, and a hand touched his shoulder. "Tanin, stop."

  But he could not. He kept stabbing, the rage overflowing him.

  "It's my fault." He trembled. "I flew south to save Sena. I enraged your father. And now this. Now demons are slaying innocents." He stared through tears back at the dead girl. "What did she know of Requiem or Eteer? What did she know of dragons or demons? This is our war. A war for a kingdom my own family founded. And she paid with her life while I live."

  Issari pulled him into her arms. "Many innocents die in war. Many pure lives are lost when soldiers fight. Requiem was forged in starlight, but she will be tempered in blood." Eyes dried, she stared at the dead demon. "We will rise from horror. We will overcome darkness. We will find our sky."

  They buried the child in the forest, far from the village, in a place of peace and beauty. Anemones grew around her grave, and elm trees rustled in the wind, their leaves like countless dragon scales. The sun shone down and the wind blew from the east, scented of the distant mountains. Tanin placed dandelions upon her grave, and Issari sang softly, songs in the tongue of Eteer. Tanin could not understand the words, but in the music he heard a song of sky, of peace, of memory. A song of farewell.

  "Goodnight, child," Tanin whispered. "Sleep well."

  They flew on into the south, two dragons, silent. The path stretched below, and the world rolled into the horizon, scarred, a world that could fall, a world they would forever fight for, a sky they would forever find. They flew until the stars emerged above, and the Draco constellation shone upon their scales.

  Tanin looked up at their glow. "Illuminate our path, stars of Requiem. We will forever fly in your light."

  They descended that night into a forest clearing, shifted back into human forms, and lay upon their fur cloaks. The stars glowed yet Tanin found no comfort, and even when he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, he only saw it again: the creatures begging on the path, the girl with the slashed belly, the demon he'd stabbed again and again, and all those older horrors of war, visions of demon armies, attacking rocs, and everywhere the dead. A lifetime of pain and death filled his mind like wine overflowing from a goblet.

  How do you forget? he thought. How do you forget so much death, so much terror, and ever find peace in the world again? Even if Requiem rises, if we win this war, will there ever be peace for me?

  He tilted his head, looking at Issari. She lay beside him, but she too was awake. She trembled, her eyes open and damp, staring up at the stars and praying silently. Tanin moved closer to her, pushing their two cloaks together, and touched her shoulder. She looked at him and nestled close, and he held her in his arms. She laid her head upon his chest and slung her arm across him, and he kissed her forehead and stroked her hair.

  "I can't sleep," she whispered.

  He wrapped his arms around her, looked up at the stars, and felt some of his pain ease. The world crumbled, Requiem struggled for survival, and death sprawled north and south of the sea. But he had Issari. He had somebody pure to protect.

  "Have I told you the story of how I used to juggle?"

  She shook her head. "No. Tell me."

  He smiled. "I was a horrible juggler. One time, I was juggling apples in a village when a seagull flew down, snatched one of my apples from the air, and flew straight off."

  "You lie." A soft smile touched her lips.

  "I never lie! It flew straight up, then dropped the apple right onto my head. The crowd loved it. Every time I tried to juggle those apples, the damn bird stole them, flew up, and dropped them onto me again. It got ugly once I started juggling torches."

  She laughed softly. "You're such a liar."

  "Wait until I tell you the story about my dancing routine and the enraged pig. Every time I did a jig, the damn hog would slam right into me, knocking me off the stage."

  She closed her eyes, and he kept talking, telling her old tall tales—of fish that tugged him into the river, fairies who taught him to sing, and other stories of sunlight and warmth and better days. He kept talking until she slept against him. He kissed her forehead, and she mumbled but would not wake. Finally he slept too, a fitful sleep, a brittle and fearful sleep, but whenever nightmares woke him she was in his arms, and he held her closer, and they warmed each other until the dawn.

  LAIRA

  She flew
upon Neiva, her dear roc, leading the Goldtusk clan across the sky.

  For seventeen years, Laira had lived as the lowliest member of this tribe—beaten, starved, worth less than the dogs. Now she was Chieftain of Goldtusk, Daughter of Ka'altei, leader of a great flock. She no longer wore her old, tattered garment of rat furs, the one Zerra had pissed on and left to stink. Today she wore a resplendent tiger pelt and a golden headdress. Her jaw was still crooked, her body still small, but her hair was growing longer, her limbs stronger, and her spirit soared like the rocs she led. Seventy of the oily vultures flew around her, yellow eyes gleaming, their feathers dank and dripping. The tribe elders, women, and children had always walked upon the earth, too lowly to ride upon the hunters' rocs, but now they rode too, five or six souls upon each bird. Three of the rocs held their totem pole, flying together, and upon the pillar's crest gleamed the gilded ivory tusk the tribe worshiped.

  Looking upon her tribe, Laira heaved a deep sigh.

  I suffered, bled, and killed for Goldtusk. And now I must give this tribe away. She tightened her lips. For Requiem.

  She looked to her left. Not a mark away flew the dragons of Requiem, twenty in all. Maev, Dorvin, and Alina had flown west to seek others. Tanin and Issari flew south across the sea. Here was all that remained, barely a tribe, barely a clan, a humble twenty dragons who would forge a nation.

  I wish you were here with us, Sena, Laira thought, the pain still fresh inside her, a raw wound in her breast she did not think would ever heal. You could have flown with us now. She lowered her head. I let you down. We all did. You were strong in your own way, not ours. We failed to see it. I failed. I'm sorry.

  She took a shaky breath and whispered prayers for his soul—a prayer to Ka'altei of the Goldtusk tribe, to Taal the Father God of Eteer, and to the stars of Requiem. She did not know if any of these deities heard her prayers. She did not know if they'd bless her brother who had sinned, who had taken his own life. But it seemed to Laira that as she prayed, she saw those stars above, just a brief glimmer, even in the daylight, and that soothed her. Perhaps Sena was up there now, looking down upon her.