Requiem's Hope (Dawn of Dragons)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Damn mammoth arse," he whispered into her ear.

  She bit his bottom lip, tugging it. "Dung Beetle."

  When they finally flew back toward the others, Alina stared with narrowed eyes, blasting out smoke. Behind her flew the group from Bar Luan, forty dragons strong.

  "What happened?" the lavender dragon demanded. "I saw fire and heard roars."

  Maev turned to fly at Alina's side. "Three demon scouts." She glanced at Dorvin. "Your brother killed all three. Got to them faster than I could."

  The lavender dragon nodded toward him. "Good work, brother."

  Dorvin nodded back, silent. He looked over at Maev, and the green dragon winked at him.

  Her and her damn winks.

  He flew among the others, sneaking glances at her. For the first time, he flew without singing or telling rude jokes. He simply glided silently, remembering the heat of her body against his, her full lips, and the light in her eyes.

  JEID

  He was standing alone on the mountainside when the demon army arrived.

  The others were all inside Two Skull Mountain, celebrating the second day of the great wedding—a day of feasting, music played on lutes and drums, and tribal dances with masks of wood and feathers. Jeid had volunteered to stand here outside the cavern, to watch the southern horizon for an enemy attack. He was not one for celebrations, not since that day his twin brother had murdered his wife, not since his daughter Requiem had died. And especially not today, the day he lost Laira too.

  And so he had come here, to watch, to wait, to grieve. As he stood outside, alone, the sound of music and laughter rising from the caves, he clenched his jaw and stared south at the distant rain and lightning, waiting for the demons, waiting for war. Perhaps that was all he had left now—war and death, fire and blood.

  "When you arrived at the escarpment, half-dead and trembling, I thought that a new light had kindled in my life," he whispered, eyes dry but throat tight. "I lost so many, but I gained you, Laira. A pure soul. Somebody strong yet fragile, compassionate yet unflinching in her struggle against our enemies. And I love you. You gave me new light, new meaning, new hope. And now you too fade from me."

  He lowered his head, feeling like a lovelorn boy. He was King of Requiem, and Laira was a chieftain, and yet he was acting like a foolish boy spurned by a village girl. He would not lose her, not truly. She would wed Oritan, but she would still fight by his side. And he knew that she sacrificed herself for Requiem, not for any love she harbored the chieftain of Leatherwing.

  And yet still the thought of her in Oritan's bed soured his belly.

  He unslung his axe from his back and was hefting the weapon—an action he often took to soothe himself—when the shadows appears on the horizon.

  Jeid froze and stared.

  From here it looked like insects rising from a carcass, a cloud of many black spots. Distant sounds rose on the wind—squeals, grunts, screams. A human voice seemed to call among them, and the setting sun glinted on metal. Jeid bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes, staring. Iciness flowed across him.

  "The demon army."

  They stormed closer, larger with every heartbeat. A thousand of the creatures—still only specks from here—covered the sky like locusts. Jeid's grip tightened on his axe. He remembered the demonic octopus they had fought; four dragons together had barely defeated the creature, and now a thousand of its brethren flew here. For a moment Jeid could only stare, frozen.

  Twenty dragons, he thought. Two hundred rocs and pteros. Against the ancient horde of the underworld.

  It was a fight they could not win.

  We're not ready. Stars, we need more time. We need Maev to return with more dragons. We need Issari to ascend to Eteer's throne. His hands shook around his axe's shaft, and a strangled growl rose from his throat. We cannot win. We must flee.

  The sun set and the stars emerged above. Their light fell upon him, the light of Requiem, and Jeid took a deep, shuddering breath.

  "For you, Requiem," he whispered, thinking of his daughter, thinking of the kingdom he would raise.

  The demons flew nearer, their shrieks louder now. Jeid turned, ran into the cave, and shifted into a dragon. Light, song, and color filled the great cavern. Pteros hung from ceiling and walls like bats. Rocs perched in alcoves. Tribesmen danced on the cave floor, wearing wooden masks and cloaks of feathers. Laira and Oritan stood upon the stone pillar in the cavern's center; she wore an embroidered garment inlaid with jewels, and he wore his armor of bones. Game cooked upon fires, the smoke wafting out of a hole high above—one of the skulls' eye sockets.

  A copper dragon, Jeid flew around the chamber, sounding his alarm.

  "Demons! Demons attack. The horde is here!"

  The music died. All eyes turned toward him.

  After a heartbeat of silence, the cavern erupted.

  "Riders of Leatherwing!" Oritan shouted. "Leatherwing, fly!" The chieftain whistled, and his ptero flew toward the pillar, wings beating back smoke, the torchlight blazing against its golden horn. Oritan leaped into the saddle, dug his heels into the animal, and flew out of the mountain and into the night. A hundred other pteros detached from the ceiling and dipped to the floor, and riders leaped into their saddles. The swarm flew after its chieftain.

  "Hunters of Goldtusk!" Laira cried. Her roc, the great vulture Neiva, sailed toward the stone pillar. Laira leaped off the stalagmite, sailed through the air, and landed upon her mount. "Goldtusk, fly for Ka'altei! Fly for the glory of our tribe and our god."

  The rocs too beat their wings, scattering droplets of oil and spreading their stench through the cave. Riders of Goldtusk yipped upon them, clad in fur cloaks and bronze breastplates. Laira at its lead, the tribe flew out of another exit—one of the skull's mouths.

  With the warriors of both tribes gone to battle, Jeid flew above his own people—twenty Vir Requis who huddled below. They were not warriors. They were the exiles of tribes, villages, and wandering clans, people who had come to him for safety, for peace. Now he would have to lead them to war.

  He landed before them on the cave floor and resumed human form. They stared back at him, eyes frightened but determined. Three among them were children, no older than ten years old, yet their fire too would be needed this night.

  "Vir Requis," Jeid said to them. "People of Requiem. I was a smith, exiled from a village that killed my wife and child. You were farmers, hunters, gatherers, shepherds. You too were exiled. You came to me to find a home, a kingdom where you can belong. You found that kingdom, yet now Requiem is threatened. Now our enemies will crush us just as we rise from darkness. Tonight we will tell them: We will stand. We will fight. We will find our sky. Tonight we fight Requiem's war of independence. Tonight we are no longer hunted and afraid. Tonight we are warriors of starlight."

  They trembled. A few shed tears. One of them, a young girl, clung to her mother. But they all stared back at him, and courage shone through their fear. It was Bryn who spoke first. The young woman stepped forward, her hair a wild red mane, and met his gaze.

  "For Requiem," she said. She shifted, took flight as an orange dragon, and soared in the cavern.

  Jeid shifted too and the others followed. Twenty dragons, they rose in the cave to join Bryn. Beating his wings, roaring his cry, Jeid—King Aeternum—led them out of the mountain and into the night.

  Fire, steel, and the stench of demons filled the sky.

  The enemy was close now, not a mark away. Jeid growled and rose in the air, his twenty dragons behind him. He could see the demons clearly now—some scaled, some feathered, some naked and dripping, others dry and lanky, some covered in hooks, others in fur, some limbless, some wingless, all creatures worse than any imagined in nightmares. Upon the beasts, leading the assault, rode a man—the only mortal of the host. He wore armor, and he bore a khopesh, the curved blade of the south. He stared across the darkness at Jeid, and their eyes met.

  King Raem of Eteer, Jeid knew. The Lord of Demons. Laira's father. />
  Laira seemed to see the tyrant too. She soared upon her roc to Jeid's right, the western flank of their host. Her seventy rocs rose around her, their riders nocking arrows and howling their battle cries. "Goldtusk, Goldtusk!" The rancid vultures added their shrieks to the din, and their talons stretched out, ready to dig into demons.

  "Leatherwing!"

  To Jeid's left rose the tribe of ptero-riders, their chests painted white and red, their spears bedecked with feathers and beads. Oritan rose before them upon his mount, chanting for his tribe.

  The demons chanted too, their voices mocking.

  "Tear off their scales one by one!" one creature cried, a shaggy thing with a warty red head.

  "Slay the birds and break the reptiles!" roared another creature, a naked strip of meat beating hooked wings.

  Jeers rose among the host.

  "We will feast upon dragon bones!"

  "We will wear skins of scales!"

  "We will drink blood from dragon horns!"

  Above them all rose the voice of King Raem, mocking and cruel. "Bring me the weredragons alive. They will beg for death in the courts of the Abyss."

  With a thousand cries, the dragons swarmed toward the mountain.

  Jeid roared and blew his fire. Around him, his dragons answered his cry.

  "Requiem! Requiem!"

  The pteros flew from the west, their riders firing spears. The rocs flew from the east, their riders firing arrows. Jeid charged forth, leading the dragons of Requiem, crashing into the host of the Abyss.

  LAIRA

  My father.

  Riding her roc, Laira stared at the host, and her eyes met his. Her heart seemed to freeze within her.

  Raem Seran. The man who exiled me. Who hunts me. Who unleashed the terrors of the underground. The man I feared for so long, the man who will kill me if he can.

  "Father," she whispered.

  He seemed to smile at her from upon his mount—a twisted demon of pink skin, wings stretched tight over bone, and a bloated, vaguely human head. He raised his sword in salute. She doubted he recognized her; she flew as a Goldtusk huntress, not a dragon of Requiem, for in this battle she would lead her tribe proudly. But she knew him. And tonight she knew that to end this war, to let Requiem rise, she would have to kill the man who had given her life.

  "Fly to him, Neiva," she said softly, pointing at the man in bronze. She nocked an arrow in her bow. "Fly to him and we will end this."

  The roc beat her wings and stormed forward. Around Laira, the other rocs flew too, their riders firing arrows. The demons ahead cackled and stormed forward to meet the Goldtusk tribe.

  The hosts slammed together with flashing blades, claws, and raining blood.

  Laira tried to reach her father, to cut him down. But the king pulled back, allowing his demons to storm forth. Three creatures flew at Laira, each as large as a dragon and covered in thick brown fur. Red faces grew from them like boils, swollen and sprouting black beards. Their teeth were yellow, their smiles cruel. Their claws reached out, and Laira shouted and fired an arrow. The projectile slammed into one demon before it crashed into her roc, teeth snapping.

  Laira screamed, drew her sword, and lashed at the wounded creature. The blade tangled in its thick fur. Its saliva dripped upon her, and Laira grimaced. Her roc dipped in the sky, then reared, talons scratching at the demon's face. Its blood spilled and it shrieked and fell back. Countless other creatures flew all around, moving closer. Laira fired another arrow, and Neiva lashed her talons, and around her dozens of other rocs battled in the sky.

  This was Goldtusk's greatest battle. This was the battle that would let Requiem rise or fade from history. This was a battle for more than tribes or dragons—it was a battle for the fate of the world itself, a battle for a world of life and light or demonic darkness.

  And that battle raged around her with light, with blood, with arrows and dragonfire. Beyond the tribe, the others fought too—dragons and pteros battling at their own fronts, killing, dying, burning the sky. Flames lit the night. Blood rained and rocs fell around her. Coiling worms the size of whales crashed into rocs, wrapped around them, crushed their bones. Demonic jaws snapped open and closed, tearing tribesmen apart, ripping torsos in two, and gore rained upon the mountainside. Everywhere around Laira the tribesmen fell, and rocs crashed down, and her tribe—and this night Goldtusk was her home, and these were her people as much as dragons—fell and died.

  Tonight all memory of Goldtusk might fade, Laira thought, firing her arrows, screaming from atop her roc. But if tonight we die, then we die with demons.

  "Neiva, fly!" she shouted. "Fight them!"

  Her roc was wounded. Gashes thick with bubbling demon saliva covered Neiva. Blood poured from her wings. One of her talons had cracked and dangled loosely. Yet still the great vulture fought, biting, scratching. And demons fell. And demons died.

  They can be hurt. She snarled and fired another arrow. We can kill them. We will kill hundreds of them.

  Her arrow slammed into a coiling serpent, and her roc tore apart a flying blob of slime.

  "To the king!" Laira shouted, pointing at Raem across the field. "To Raem! Rocs, rally here. To me!"

  The surviving rocs mustered around her, bloodied and weary but still shrieking. The tribesmen chanted atop them. "For Laira! Chieftain Laira!" Their cries rolled across the sky. "For Laira Seran, Chieftain of Goldtusk!"

  The surviving rocs—by the stars, barely fifty still lived—stormed forth, crashing into the swarm of demons that hid the world. And there, rising above their rot, she saw him again, the man of bronze. Her father. He met her gaze across the sky, and she saw him gasp, and slowly a grin spread across his face. She could not hear his voice from here, but she could read his lips.

  "Laira." His grin widened and he flew toward her, and now his voice carried on the wind. "Laira, my daughter!"

  She screamed. She pointed toward him. "Goldtusk, to the bronze king! Slay the king!"

  Their arrows fired. Laira dug her heels into Neiva, and her fellow rocs swarmed around her, charging toward Raem.

  Hundreds of demons slammed into the tribe.

  Jaws tore wings off rocs. Claws lacerated men, tearing through armor. Great tapeworms swallowed tribesmen whole. Flaming demons of scales and lava landed upon the tribe, burning them, feasting on roasted flesh.

  "Fly to the metal man!" Laira shouted. "Slay the king!" She fired her last arrow. "Fly to him, Neiva!"

  The roc shrieked and flew, but Laira knew the animal was too hurt, too weak. Her blood dripped, and half the feathers had been torn off her left wing. She wobbled as she flew. But Raem was so close now. Laira could see him just a few demons away.

  "Rocs, with me!" she cried. But the others too were hurt, surrounded by too many enemies, and more fell every breath.

  So I will fight you alone, Father. You exiled me. You drove me to a world of hunger, cold, fear. And now you will taste my blade. She raised her bronze sword high, the same blade that had slain Zerra. Now this blade will sever your head too.

  He raised his own sword, awaiting her across the battle upon his twisted bat, and his lips peeled back in a horrible smile—a demon's smile.

  A cloud of buzzing flies, each the size of a horse, bustled toward Laira. Their faces were humanlike, bloated like waterlogged corpses, gray and leaking. With screeches, they flew onto Neiva like true flies onto old meat.

  The roc screamed.

  The flies thrust out long, metallic tongues, piercing Neiva's flesh. Blood spurted.

  "Neiva!"

  Laira swung her sword, trying to reach the unholy insects, but her arm was too short.

  "Neiva, fly!"

  The roc rose in the sky. The vulture tossed back her head, let out a pained cry, and tried to flap her wings. Two of the demonic flies landed upon one of those wings, bit deep, tugged hard, and ripped the wing off.

  The roc tumbled from the sky, flies digging into her chest.

  Laira fell with the roc, hair billowing
, head spinning. The ground raced up toward them. They slammed into another roc, flipped over, and fell again. The world spun all around Laira—clouds of demons, dragons blowing fire, distant pteros upon the wind, and above them all the stars—the stars of Requiem, the stars going dark behind the smoke and flame of battle.

  "Neiva, fly!"

  But the roc was already dead, her chest cut open, her wings gone. Laira struggled to free herself from the saddle, but a strap pinned her down. She cried out. They slammed against a demon, spun madly, and kept falling.

  An instant before hitting the ground, Laira managed to swing her sword, cutting the strap.

  She tore free from the saddle.

  She shifted into a dragon.

  She soared, a golden beast, blowing fire, roaring her cry.

  "For Requiem!"

  She fought as a dragon now; Requiem would be her battle cry, her beacon of hope in the darkness. She flew alone; she saw no other rocs. Some other dragons still fought, but they were too distant, and many demons separated her from the Leatherwing tribe. She would face him alone.

  A golden dragon, she blew her flame, crashed through demons, and flew toward her father.

  ISSARI

  They traveled through the desert, thousands of Eteerians, weary and wounded and far from home.

  Their city lay in darkness, its halls and homes overrun with the demon spawn. The underworld had risen; a kingdom had fallen. And so here they walked across the dry, stony earth, the sun scorching their skin. They had taken no supplies, had fled their city with only the clothes on their backs. Some walked barefoot, the hot earth baking their soles. Some walked shirtless, the sun turning their skin red. All were parched, their lips dry, their throats tight, their bellies twisting with fear. A thousand men, women, and children. Exiled. Wandering into the deep, southern heat. Demons covered the world, and nightmares haunted their sleep, and only one thing gave the survivors of Eteer hope in the wild. Only one light still guided their way.

  The Priestess in White.

  She walked at their lead, solemn, her back always straight, her head always high. Her white tunic fluttered in the wind, a simple garment. No golden tassels or embroidery marked her raiment as they had during her days as a princess. No headdress of gold or jewels bedecked her head of raven hair. To a chance observer, she might have, at first glance, seemed like a simple commoner, perhaps the daughter of a milkmaid or a potter. Yet something in her eyes—determined, hard eyes that never flinched from the shimmering horizon—denoted her nobility, her holiness.