Crown of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  Reehan let out a battle cry. Her golden hair streamed, and her bloody face twisted with rage. She leaped forward, twin blades flashing. With one swing of the blade, she knocked aside the weredragon's longsword. With the other, she cut the creature's neck, sending him crashing down. Blood spurted onto her, and she licked it off her face and smacked her lips.

  "All right, my love?" she said, reaching down to help him up.

  Ishtafel rose without her help. His heart thudded against his ribs. Sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the blood.

  I can't do this, he thought. Only thirty years old—a babe among the immortal seraphim—he had thought himself brave, a great conqueror. He had vowed to his Mother: I will show you my strength! I will build an empire for you. I will crush Requiem!

  He had slain the dragons in their sky. With thousands of flaming chariots, he had burned them down. Yet now, here in these tunnels, he fought the creatures face to face. Here was no realm of fire; here was blood, guts, bones, torn bodies and organs across the walls, and fear, and screams. Here he would die, no conqueror, just a soldier, screaming as the shapeshifters tore him apart.

  The weredragons charged. Side by side with Reehan, Ishtafel fought.

  They moved through the tunnels, thousands of seraphim behind them, thousands of weredragons ahead. They climbed rough staircases, ran through craggy tombs and libraries, fought in cisterns, in granaries, in burrows barely wide enough to walk through. And everywhere the dead fell, seraphim, weredragons, piles of corpses underground.

  As he kept marching through the tunnels, cutting weredragons down, some of Ishtafel's fear eased. Bloodlust rose to replace it. He was surviving. He was killing. He would win this.

  "I slay them for you, Reehan!" he cried, driving his sword into a weredragon child, sending the girl crashing down. "I conquer this land in your honor, my love. When we return home, victorious, we shall wed in glory."

  She laughed at his side, lashing her blades at an axe-wielding weredragon. "Let us wed here, my love! Let us wed in darkness and blood, for this is a domain of more glory than the gold of Saraph."

  Her eyes shone as she gazed at him. Bloodied, her blades held before her, Reehan seemed more beautiful than ever. Here was no pampered lady like so many in Saraph. Here was a tigress, a huntress hungry for prey. Her wings dripped the blood of her enemies, and her smile was hot, deadly, lusting for him.

  She is my love, Ishtafel thought, the only seraph worthy to be my bride. She will bear me great heirs.

  "Very well!" Ishtafel said, laughing. He swung his sword at another weredragon, cutting the child down. "Let us wed here upon a pile of corpses, and you will wear their blood as your gown."

  She saluted with her blade, laughing. "We will always hunt together, my love! We—"

  A hoarse cry rolled over her words.

  A young weredragon woman charged down the tunnel, screaming, thrusting a longsword.

  "Murderers!" the weredragon howled. Her blade plunged down, crashed through Reehan's armor, and drove through her chest and out of her back.

  The weredragon might as well have stabbed Ishtafel's chest. His heart seemed to shatter inside him.

  Reehan fell, the blade piercing her, and gazed at him, reaching out to him.

  "My love . . .," she whispered, and then her head rolled back, and she said no more.

  Ishtafel screamed.

  Something tore in his throat and filled his mouth with blood.

  He leaped forward, blade swinging, and cut down the weredragon woman, nearly severing her entire torso with a single blow. He roared. He fought in a fury, lashing his blade into another weredragon, another, tears in his eyes.

  "Reehan!" he cried. "Reehan!"

  He knelt beside her, shivering, coated with the weredragons, and held her hands.

  "Please, Reehan, please, my love. Wake up. Wake up, great huntress."

  But she only lay limply, eyes gazing at nothing.

  Slowly, Ishtafel rose to his feet. He took one of her swords. He stared forward, hissing out his breath. Around him, his soldiers gathered, warrior seraphim in steel.

  "Enough!" Ishtafel shouted. "Enough killing."

  "My lord?" asked one soldier. "Let us avenge her death. Let us slay them all, let—"

  "No." Ishtafel's fists trembled around his hilts. "No, we will not grant them the mercy of death. The living weredragons will return with us to Saraph . . . and they will hurt. They will scream like she screamed." His voice trembled with rage. "For eternity they will suffer."

  His eyes opened.

  The echoes of battle faded.

  Once more he lay in his chamber—five hundred years later—on a soft bed, surrounded by wealth.

  Just a dream. Just a memory.

  "I never forgot you, Reehan," Ishtafel whispered.

  He would have given the world—all this world he had conquered—to have Reehan lie here in his bed. To hold her. Kiss her. Love her. Even after all these centuries, Ishtafel could remember every detail of her: the curve of her hips, her crooked smile, the light in her green eyes, the flash of her blade.

  "I conquered this world for Saraph, but what is it without you, Reehan? There will never be another like you. You were a huntress of light and blood. Never more will another shine with your light."

  He rose from bed. He walked across the mosaic on his floor, the tiles forming the shape of slain dragons. He pulled open his curtains, and he stared out upon the City of Kings.

  The roads of Shayeen flared out like a great wagon wheel, lined with obelisks, temples, forts, and countless stone homes. Palm trees swayed, lush gardens flowered, and many ships sailed on the river. Beyond the horizon, Ishtafel could just make it out—the edge of Tofet.

  "You will suffer, weredragons, for as long as I like," he whispered. "Eventually I will grant you the mercy of death, but not yet . . . not until I'm done hurting you."

  He clenched his fists, lowered his head, and saw it again—the weredragons, his lover dying in his arms, and the endless tunnels coiling deeper, deeper into endless darkness.

  MELIORA

  They were walking across barren, rocky hills when the soil rose to wrathful life.

  Dawn was spilling across the hills, but still Meliora and Elory trudged on. They had been walking all night, they were weary, and they kept scanning the sky for Ishtafel's chariots. But Meliora wanted to keep walking for as long as she could.

  Every hour that we dally is another hour my people suffer, she thought. Every hour before I return with the key is another hour Ishtafel is tormenting the slaves.

  "Are you all right to keep going?" she asked Elory. "Just for a little longer until we reach those taller hills." She pointed ahead. "There might be caves there or canyons, places to hide and sleep."

  Even though dawn had just risen, it was already hot, the air thick as soup. Sweat beaded on Elory's brow and clung to the brown stubble on her head. Her eyes were glazed, and dust coated her burlap cloak and bare feet. She nodded.

  "We'll keep walking." She smiled thinly. "I used to haul bitumen in the pits of Tofet. I can handle a little hike."

  But Meliora was not so sure. It was true that Elory had lived a life of labor—but also a life of malnutrition and beatings, leaving her far shorter and frailer than Meliora. Though her wings were gone, Meliora still had the body of a seraph—tall, perfectly proportioned, a work of art. Elory was small and fragile and already wheezing as they climbed the hills.

  "Elory." Meliora's voice was soft. "I never told you this, but . . . I'm sorry." She lowered her head. "For what you had to endure in Tofet. For what you all had to endure. I was living in luxury in the world's greatest palace, just a silly little girl. I chased butterflies, I laughed at puppet shows, I danced at banquets, forever a child, forever wrapped in silk and light. All that while, I should have known." Her eyes stung and her fists clenched. "I should have traveled across the river—just a couple hours away!—and seen how the slaves lived. I should have . . . done something. Somehow saved
you. Somehow convinced my Mother to release the Vir Requis, or somehow fought against her, or . . . something. Bring you food and water. Visit you and heal you. Pray for you. But I simply lived like a pampered fool while my sister, my family, my people cried out for help." A tear streamed down her cheek. "I'm ashamed, and I'm sorry, Elory."

  Elory stopped walking. She approached Meliora and held her hands. Elory's hands were small, dark, and callused, barely larger than the hands of a child. Meliora's hands were long and slender, pale, and soft, the hands of one who had spent her life in idleness.

  "You did help us, my sister." Elory's eyes shone damply. "For so many years, I prayed to the stars. We all did. We prayed for a savior. And the stars sent you to us. My sister." Elory smiled through her tears. "You came to us in our hour of greatest need, and you led us into the City of Kings, marching at the lead of a nation. You rose before us as a dragon, blowing white fire, a pillar we will always follow. You fought for us. You gave us hope."

  "I gave you nothing but death." Meliora's heart clenched, and she pulled her hands back. "I fought Ishtafel but I lost our battle, and he slew thousands to retaliate. Their blood is on my hands."

  Elory squared her shoulders. "You are not responsible for those deaths, only Ishtafel. You did not lose your battle, sister. It was your gauntlet of fire. Perhaps you had to lose your seraph wings before you could find the wings of a dragon. We will find this Keymaker, and we will find our sky. And then, Meliora . . . then all of Requiem will follow your fire again, but that day, we will follow you as dragons."

  Meliora lowered her head. "I cannot be that heroine, that leader you need. I'm no great warrior like Ishtafel. I'm not wise like our father. I'm not clever and quick like Tash, not strong like Vale. I'm not brave like you, Elory. I'm just . . . just a pampered princess. Innocent. As new to this world as a babe."

  "Maybe." Elory nodded. "But you have us to help you."

  Meliora laughed and wiped her eyes. "That's a little better. But you're right, Elory. You know what they say, don't you? About losing a battle but winning the war? Well, I don't want any war." She pulled the broken key from her pocket. "I just want us to fix this damn key and get everyone to fly away—fly all the way across desert, sea, and forest—to Requiem."

  "To Requiem," Elory whispered.

  They turned back westward, and they continued walking across the hills. The sun had risen over the horizon now, casting its light over a rocky landscape. The Te'ephim River gushed to their left, tumbling over boulders and through canyons. Along the previous miles of their journey, the river had fed rushes, grass, and trees along its bank, a source of fruits and nuts. Here, however, the land was barren. Nothing but boulders rose along the river, and even moss did not grow on them. The hills ahead were lifeless, sprouting not a blade of grass, a dead, tan color like bones draped with mummified skin. The hills grew taller ahead, jagged and cruel and difficult to climb.

  This is a cursed land, Meliora thought.

  As they kept walking, the sense of dread grew in Meliora. It was too quiet here. No birds flew, and even no insects scurried underfoot. The place smelled wrong too—a muddy, wormy scent, faintly tainted with ash.

  Meliora and Elory had crested a hilltop when the earth began to shake.

  Pebbles cascaded down the hillside, and cracks raced along the earth, thin as strands of hair. The earth in the valley below churned like a pit of tar.

  "Earthquake," Elory whispered.

  Meliora frowned. "No. Something trapped in the mud." She gasped and pointed. "Look!"

  Shapes were flapping in the mud in the valley, perhaps large fish, rising and falling. Stones cascaded around them, and bubbles rose in the mud and popped. A long form, similar to a human arm, rose from the earth, coated in the mud, then fell.

  "They're people!" Elory said. "People trapped in the mud!" She began to run downhill into the valley. "Hurry, Meliora. We can still save them. They're still alive!"

  "Wait!" Meliora said, reaching out to grab her sister, but Elory was running too quickly into the valley.

  The things in the mud were rising taller, dragging themselves out of the earth. Slowly they took form, rising as tall as men, dripping soil. Rocks were embedded into their torsos, and worms crawled across them. They were vaguely humanoid, their arms handless, their heads misshapen lumps. At first Meliora thought them creatures formed of the soil, but when she hurried after Elory, she saw that ribs protruded from the beings' muddy chests, and red hearts pulsed within them, coated with soil and riddled with maggots.

  Elory skidded to a halt and gasped, and Meliora came to stand beside her. Sucking, wet sounds rose behind them, and Meliora spun around to see more of the creatures rising on the hills behind her, blocking her retreat.

  "What are they?" Elory whispered.

  Meliora thought she knew, and her belly curdled. She was about to reply when the creatures screamed.

  They were screams of rage, of pain, of hatred. Horrible sounds, wet, gurgling, anguished, the screams of drowning animals. Bubbles rose and burst across the creatures, seeping black tar like blood.

  "A creator!" one of the creatures cried, opening a mouth full of broken stone teeth. It was taller than the others. Unlike its comrades, it had a soft skull like wet papyrus, full of mud. In two dark sockets, eyes moved on stalks, like worms inside burrows. A crown topped its head, formed of two jawbones strung together with tendons, as if this golem were king of its kind. It raised a dripping arm and pointed at Meliora. It had no hand, only the hints of finger bones sticking out from the mud like twigs. "A cursed creator! Make her pay. Strip off her flesh! Make her one of us."

  "One of us," chanted the creatures.

  The creatures began to advance toward her and Elory, raising their dripping hands.

  "Golems," Meliora whispered. She had heard whispers of such creatures, but she had thought them only myths.

  "Meliora, they're angry!" Elory cried.

  Meliora's eyes stung. "They're in pain."

  It had happened before her birth, if the tales were to be believed. They said that Queen Kalafi, banished from Edinnu, outcast from her gods' graces, had tried to become a goddess herself. To create life. In the tales whispered in the ziggurat, Kalafi had stepped out into the wilderness, and there she had labored—here in this valley! Here she had summoned all her power, molding beings from the clay.

  They were meant to be beautiful, Meliora remembered, staring at these dripping, bubbling creatures. They were meant to be as noble as seraphim.

  But Kalafi had failed.

  The queen had begun her creation, forming from the clay bones, blood, hearts . . . but the creation of life was beyond her. Here still languished the culmination of her efforts, only half completed, still clinging to a mockery of life. Still in pain after all these years. Instead of angelic beings, the seraphim, cast out from their heavenly realm, had created monsters. The golems of the valley. Forever the shame of Saraph.

  My siblings, Meliora thought.

  And now the twisting beings swarmed toward her from all sides, crying for her blood.

  Elory hissed and raised her spear. "Stand back!"

  Meliora, however, placed down the spear she carried and held out open palms. "Wait, friends!" she said. "Golems, wait and hear me."

  Yet the creatures would not slow down. One of them swiped a dripping arm at Elory, and the young woman cried out and thrust her spear. The blade sank into muddy flesh, not stopping the golem. The creature grabbed Elory, spraying her with mud. She thrashed in its grasp, unable to flee.

  "Rip out their bones!" rumbled the Golem King, its wormy eyes moving within the sockets of its soft, fleshy skull. "Coat them with mud. Bring me their jawbones for my crown."

  Two golems approached Meliora, reaching out toward her. One grabbed her arm, twisting many-jointed finger bones around her. Another rose from the mud beneath her, coiled around her legs, and bit down with stony teeth.

  "Stop this!" Meliora cried. "Golems, I command you stop. I am your s
ister. I am the daughter of Queen Kalafi, your creator. Stop this madness!"

  They screamed around her, hundreds of them, more still rising from the mud. Some fell and shattered, only to reform. They limped down the hills and across the valley, seeping blood, organs dangling out from muddy torsos, falling, breaking, rising again. Unable to live. Unable to die. Forever caught between creation and curse.

  "She is the Creator's spawn!" cried a golem, worms dripping from its head.

  "I will suck on her ribs," said another, limping forward, its one leg half the length of the other, mushrooms growing from its shoulders.

  Others were tugging at Elory, stretching out her limbs. "Quarter her!" the golems said. "We will suck on her marrow. Tug her! Tug her until we hear the sockets pop."

  Meliora snarled and kicked. "Stop this." As more golems grabbed her, she turned toward the king of the creatures, the golem with the soft skull and jawbone crown. "King Golem, hear me. I am Queen Kalafi's daughter. I can help you."

  "Cursed creator, cursed creator!" the golems chanted. "Make her one of us, one of us."

  One golem yanked at Elory's arm, a tug so mighty that Elory's bone popped out of its socket. Elory screamed. More golems began tugging at Meliora's limbs, and she fell into the mud, thrashing, unable to free herself.

  "I can give you life!" Meliora shouted. "Stop this, golems. I can heal you!"

  They knocked her down, and mud entered her eyes, and in the distance Elory still screamed. Their fingers wrapped around her, yanking, pulling her, quartering her, and Meliora shouted. Mud entered her mouth, and all she could see was the lumpy, dripping heads of the creatures and their dark, soulless eyes.

  "Wait." The voice rumbled over the creatures' screeches. "Bring the creator's daughter before me."

  The golems tossed back their heads, howling in protest, but they obeyed their king. They tugged Meliora to her feet, gripping her with their muddy digits, and limped forth, dragging her through the mud.

  "Release Elory!" Meliora cried, spitting out mud. "Release my sister, or I won't give you aid."