Requiem's Hope (Dawn of Dragons)

by Daniel Arenson

  Raem stared down at the village, sneering. As they flew closer, details emerged. He saw only a few scattered clay huts, their roofs thatched with straw. Only a single brick building rose here, perhaps a smithy, smaller than even a humble Eteerian home. Reed boats swayed at the docks.

  Raem laughed. "The fabled King of Requiem—not a son of nobility or light after all. A simple barbarian. He may style himself a royal leader, but—"

  He bit down on his words and frowned. Seated in the saddle before him, Ciana was trembling. When Raem leaned around her, he saw tears pouring from beneath her mask. He felt something he had not felt in a long time, not since before his children had betrayed him. He felt pity. He felt . . . love. He stroked the young woman's hair.

  "Sweetness, why do you tremble? Why do your tears fall?"

  She stared down at the village. Her voice shook. "I can still feel it. His fire flowing over me. I can still hear it. My own screams. Even now it burns." She touched her bronze mask. "I now have a face of metal. I now have a mind of memories. They did this to me here. This village is the scar that will forever mark my body and twist inside me."

  Raem held her close to him, and his rage flared. His voice hissed through his clenched jaw. "Then this is the village where you will be reborn. Here you were hurt. Here I will heal you." He dug his spurs into his demonic bat and he roared for his army to hear. "To the village! Land in Oldforge."

  As they descended, he sucked in strained breaths. His fingers trembled and Ciana was warm against him. He had seen it done before. He had seen the masterwork of these demons, their hooks and needles creating artwork from flesh and bone and blood. They had used their art to torture; now they would use it to heal.

  He kissed the back of Ciana's head. "You are a true warrior of Taal, a great huntress of dragons. I will heal you."

  Villagers fled as the demon army landed in the village. They locked themselves in homes, only for demons the break down the doors and drag them out. Some fled into the fields, only for more creatures to pounce and grab them. A few villagers tried to fight with arrows and spears; demon acid, claws, and fangs tore them apart.

  "Do not yet feed!" Raem shouted. He dismounted his bat and walked among the huts. "Bring all the women to me. Line them up."

  His creatures bustled through the village, dragging women out of homes. They all seemed crude compared to the beauties of Eteer; these northern women were taller and wider, their hair lighter, their garments made of fur, leather, and homespun. Yet he would find a suitable one among them. A few were screaming, others weeping; all tried to flee, but the demons held them fast with constricting tongues and coiling claws. A few of their menfolk tried to save the women, staging some heroic assault; they fell fast, their blood feeding the soil. Finally a score of young women stood in a line, clutched in the grip of the demons.

  "Come, Ciana!" Raem said. "Come see them. Is there one you favor?"

  Ciana stepped forward hesitantly. "Raem, what . . . I know these women. I know them all by name." She tilted her head. "What will you do to them?"

  He turned toward her, smiling. Her bronze mask was beautiful, but behind it her face was gone, and that was an insult to his god, an insult he must erase. "Who among them is prettiest, do you think? Which face do you like?"

  Her hand crept toward the hilt of her dagger. "Raem, what—"

  "I like this one," he said, interrupting her. He pointed at a tall, lovely woman with full red lips, pale cheeks, and long eyelashes. "She will suit our purpose. Stitchmark!" He coned his palm around his mouth. "Stitchmark, to me!"

  Rancid wings buzzed. A demon landed and clattered toward him on many hooked feet. Stitchmark looked like a great gray beetle, its shell spiked. Long arms grew from its body, and each hand sprouted metal tools as fingers. There were needles, scalpels, spools of thread, bone saws, and more. A series of glass lenses on hinges covered its eyes. When the demon reached Raem, one lens left its eye, replaced with another. The demon bowed.

  "Stitchmark, I like this young woman's face." He pointed at the villager; she was weeping and screaming, trying to escape the creature that held her, looking lovelier than ever. "Give Ciana her face."

  The woman wept.

  Ciana took a step back, gasping.

  Stitchmark leaped forth and began to work.

  "Hush, Ciana," Raem said as the young huntress trembled. "Here, lay down in the grass. Close your eyes. Let Stitchmark do his work and soon it will all be over."

  Blood flowed across the village. The demons crowded around, licking their chops, admiring the work in progress. Raem stood among them, a smile stretching across his lips. Scalpels cut and spools turned and needles raced.

  When Ciana rose to her feet, blood trickling down her neck and forehead, Raem approached her. He touched her pale cheek, and he kissed her full red lips. The demons feasted behind them.

  "You are beautiful, my Ciana, my sweet killer of dragons."

  They left the village full of blood, bones, and a discarded bronze mask.

  LAIRA

  She stood in her tent, remembering the day her mother had died.

  She had stood waiting in a tent then too. She had spent days in that tent, the sounds of her mother's trial—screaming, shouting, cursing—rising outside. That day eleven years ago, she had emerged into the daylight to see her mother burned at the stake, to see life change into a fever dream of hunger, abuse, and hope for dragons. Now she waited in a tent again, and again when she emerged, her life would change, and the Laira she had known would be gone, replaced with somebody new.

  She lifted the bronze handheld mirror and examined her reflection. So many times, Chieftain Zerra would force her to look at her reflection, to see the creature he had turned her into—a waif with a crooked chin, slanted mouth, sheared hair, and cheeks gaunt with hunger and neglect. Her chin was still crooked, her mouth still slanted, but she no longer saw a starving wretch. Her cheeks were fuller, her hair longer, her green eyes brighter. A headdress of silver and topaz adorned her, and she wore a fine cloak of wool woven with golden threads. Beneath it, her tribe's women had painted totem charms upon her body—paw prints upon her belly, rivers that coiled around her breasts, and golden tusks upon her thighs. The symbols would make her fertile, the women had said, and they would make Chieftain Oritan desire her. Today she would be his.

  She closed her eyes, shuddering to remember the only other man who had lain with her. She had given herself to Chieftain Zerra in return for a roc to ride, and the memory still made her wince. Would Oritan too take her roughly, hurting her innards, drooling upon her, digging his fingernails down her back? Or would he be gentle like some women whispered their husbands could be? Laira did not know, but whatever happened, she swore to bear it. For her people. For Requiem.

  The tent flap opened. Lokania, a gatherer of berries of the Goldtusk tribe, stood at the entrance. She held a jeweled bowl of ram's blood, signifying the purity of matrimony. The young woman had long golden hair and blue eyes. Fifteen years old, she was slim of body and quick of fingers; she had woven Laira's garment herself. Since Laira had become chieftain, Lokania had served her—preparing her meals, tending to her hair and garments, and running her errands in the tribe. Today Lokania's eyes were bright, her mouth solemn.

  "It is time, my chieftain. He awaits."

  Laira took a deep breath. She laid down her mirror and stepped closer to Lokania. The girl kissed her fingertips, then placed them against Laira's neck, an old blessing.

  "You will please him in his bed, my chieftain." The young woman lowered her eyes and blushed. "He is very strong."

  Laira touched the girl's hair. "Walk with me, Lokania. Walk with me to the tusks."

  They left the tent together. Upon the mountainside stood the two tribes. The Goldtusks stood to Laira's left, lower upon the slope, clad in fur, bones, and beads, their beards long, their bronze armor bright. To Laira's right, higher up on the mountain, stood the Leatherwing tribe; they had no bronze, but they wore armor of bone and
boiled leather, and apes' skulls hid their faces. In a small cluster ahead stood the Vir Requis, twenty in all—haggard, wearing only tattered wool and fur. As she walked forward, Laira did not know who her people were, who she was. Was she a princess of Eteer, seeking a new home? Was she a daughter of Goldtusk? Was she a new bride of Leatherwing?

  She raised her eyes and found Jeid staring at her across the mountain path. His eyes were hurt, but she saw the love in them, and she remembered the first time she had met him, how he had healed her, how she had slept in his arms, how he had made her dream of dragons come true. And Laira knew: My home is Requiem. I may wear the clothes of Goldtusk, and I may be a bride of Leatherwing, and I may be an exiled princess of Eteer . . . but I am only one thing. A Vir Requis. What I do today I do for Requiem. She looked into her king's eyes. Even if I hurt you, Jeid.

  Two scrimshawed mammoth tusks rose ahead, forming an arch. Strings of beads, dried animal hearts, and raven skulls hung from them, swaying in the wind, symbols of fertility and fortune. Laira approached the ivory archway, walking slowly, all eyes upon her. Lokania walked ahead of her, holding her jeweled bowl, sprinkling droplets of ram's blood with every step. The blood stained Laira's bare feet as she walked, blessing her path toward her new lord. The ram who had given this gift burned in a fire pit upon the mountain, its smoke rising to curl around Goldtusk's totem pole, a sacrifice to Ka'altei. A second fire burned higher up near the mountaintop, its smoke thicker and darker—a young woman of Leatherwing, given alive to the flame, a sacrifice to the cloud-gods of Two Skull Mountain.

  Thus do I buy hope for Requiem, Laira thought, eyes stinging from the smoke or perhaps from her grief. With the life of a ram and the life of a girl.

  She reached the mammoth tusks. Chieftain Oritan stood under the arch, clad in his armor of bones—an ape's rib cage around his chest, its skull over his head. His blades hung from his belt, and a necklace of scalps hung around his neck, trophies from his enemies. As Laira looked at him, she saw a leader, a warrior, a killer, and she thought of Jeid's kind eyes, and she steeled her heart. If Oritan hurt her, she would bear it. If she suffered, well—she had already suffered much in her life, and her heart was hardened. Her father flew toward this mountain, perhaps only moments away. Laira needed this chieftain's warriors, and she would sell herself to him, and she would endure any pain for her kingdom.

  Let the stars above know, she thought, and let future poets sing, and let all generations of dragons whisper of Laira, a daughter of Requiem—and the sacrifice she made for the light of King and Column.

  "For King and Column," she whispered and stepped under the archway.

  She stood before the chieftain, so small by his towering form. Lokania stood at her side, holding her bowl, her eyes lowered. At Oritan's side stood one of his servants, a young woman clad only in a loincloth, her body painted white and red, a headdress of bones and beads upon her dark hair. Lokania dipped her finger into her bowl, then pressed the blood on to Laira's lips; it tasted coppery and was still warm. Oritan's servant reached into a box of ashes—taken from the burnt woman upon the mountaintop—and scattered them on Oritan's chest, a blessing from the dead. A shaman of Leatherwing stepped forth, an ancient man with a long white beard, three ape skulls stacked together above his head. He chanted, scattered green powder from a bowl, and prayed to the gods. And with that they were joined. And with that Goldtusk and Leatherwing were one. With that Laira was his.

  The tribesmen cheered. Songs erupted across the mountainsides, even with an enemy approaching, even with the darkness inside her. Men drank spirits from copper-banded horns and skulls, and bison and deer cooked in pits. An entire mammoth, hunted on the plains below, roasted atop a great fire, the centerpiece of the feast. Men played drums and lutes, and people danced, and the smoke and firelight stung Laira's eyes. She wanted to return to her people, to the Vir Requis, to stand among them, but perhaps they were no longer her people—only in her heart. Today she had given herself fully to both tribes, and so she sat upon the mountainside with Oritan, accepting the gifts the people brought forth—pelts, beads, pottery, weapons, statuettes, jewels. Food and spirits were brought to them, though she ate and drank little; her belly was already full with fear.

  And thus the beaten, half-starved girl has become a great leader, she thought. She looked over the crowd, seeking Jeid. Yet I would gladly become a wretch again if I could be by his side instead.

  The crowd cheered with renewed vigor as Oritan rose to his feet, motioning for Laira to stand too. Tribesmen roared and raised their weapons as he led her away. They stepped into a cave—the skull's mouth—entering a cavern whose walls were lined with holes, each hole a home. The crowd raced around them, sweeping them into a torrent, taking them deeper into the cave, up a path, and toward one of the alcoves. A curtain of bones hid the entrance, and a song rose as Oritan led her into the chamber, leaving the crowd outside.

  Laira took a shaky breath. For Requiem.

  She found herself in a round room, its walls painted with scenes of running bison, saber-toothed cats, and herds of mammoths. Many trophies filled the chamber: chalices of silver, shields of bronze, gilded skulls, and many blades and bows. A bed of furs lay at the back, and to there Oritan led her. The crowd still sang outside, but the sound was muffled.

  He stood before her, clad in his armor of bones. His helmet still hid his head. He stared at her silently. She stood before him and met his gaze.

  "By the custom of my people," she said, "take my blade, and cut my garment from me."

  She handed him her bronze sword. He accepted the short, leaf-shaped weapon, stepped closer to her, and slid the blade under her embroidered bridal garment. With a single, swift movement, he tugged the sword backward, slicing the fabric. The garment split open, revealing her small, painted breasts. He cut again, and the tatters fell to her feet, revealing her full nakedness and the totems painted upon her. She was not wide of hips or heavy of breasts as most other women of her tribe; she was small and slim, for she had spent so many years as a servant, and many scars adorned her body. She expected to see disgust in his eyes, but she saw only softness.

  He dropped her sword, and Laira winced, expecting him to shove her down, to thrust into her, to claim her as Zerra had. She braced herself for the pain, and she inhaled sharply when he drew nearer. But he only touched her cheek and caressed her hair.

  "Laira," he whispered. He removed his helmet, leaned down, and kissed her forehead.

  She trembled as he took her into his bed of fur. For a long time, he simply caressed her hair, stroked her body, and let his lips flutter over her, tickling her with his breath. Even when he doffed his clothes, he was not rough but held her delicately, exploring her as if marveling at her body.

  "You are strong but fragile," he whispered into her ear, holding her close. "You are brave but timid. And I promise you, Laira, that I will always praise your name, and I will always make you proud to be my wife."

  She closed her eyes, her fear easing, and she smiled softly as his fingers trailed down her belly and reached between her thighs. And he did not hurt her, but he loved her, and she buried her hands in his hair, and for the first time in her life, Laira found pleasure in the love of a man, and she began to understand those secrets the women of her tribe would whisper in the nights. Here in their bed, he was no warrior, no slayer of enemies; he was her husband, and it was good and warm and safe. A demon army flew toward her, and the world burned, but this night she slept naked in her husband's arms and she did not dream.

  ALINA

  The guards shoved them into the dungeon, and the stone door slammed shut behind them, scattering dust.

  Alina fell, banging her knees against the dirt floor. She coughed, her robes tangling around her, the ropes chafing her wrists and ankles. At her side, Dorvin and Maev thumped down into the dirt, their limbs tied with thick ropes. The chamber was dark; only a small hole in the ceiling let in a beam of dusty light. For long moments, Alina struggled to reclaim her
breath, to focus her eyes, to make sense of her surroundings. She could see only shadows, but she sensed a presence here, something very old, very strong. A power filled this chamber, a great darkness, an ancient wisdom crushed under fear. It was so thick it spun Alina's head; she had not felt such power in the air since witnessing the magic of King's Column.

  "Let us out!" Dorvin was shouting, struggling to rise, only to fall again.

  "Open that door and face us like men!" Maev cried, mouth full of dust, and spat. "Cowards!"

  Yet the stone door remained closed. The guards had manhandled them here across Bar Luan, taken them into a tunnel that led to this chamber beneath their holy tree, and entombed them in the shadows.

  "This is all your fault, Alina." Dorvin glared at her. He managed to rise to his knees, and his eyes blazed. "Mammoth Arse and I wanted to burn the bastards. Why did you stop us?"

  She glared back at him, her eyes still adjusting to the darkness. "We've not flown here to slay men. We're Vir Requis, not monsters."

  "Well, now we're imprisoned Vir Requis." Dorvin huffed and tugged at his bonds. "I hope you're happy."

  Maev too grumbled. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree with the dung beetle. We should have burned them. This is war. You shouldn't have stopped us, Alina, and we shouldn't have listened to you."

  Alina's eyes stung in the flying dust, and her wrists blazed; the rope was digging into them. She took a deep breath and stared at her companions—her oaf of a brother and the brute Maev.

  "War?" She shook her head, hair flouncing. "We're at war with the demons of Eteer. Not Bar Luan. The people of Bar Luan are scared. They've been suffering nightmares for too long; we all suffered the same waking dreams. So they blamed the Vir Requis, us among them. Out of fear."

  Maev gnashed her teeth. "Fear always leads to hatred. It does not excuse one's crimes." She grimaced, struggling to shift. Scales began to flow across her, and horns began to bud from her head. But when her body began to grow, the ropes dug into her wrists and ankles, shoving her back into human form. "Damn useless."