Crown of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  She looked at the wound on his shoulder—an ugly ring of teeth marks—and winced. She lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Vale. It's my fault. I almost got us killed." Sniffing, she moved closer and embraced him. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . the sight of gold. For so many years, it was what the seraphim gave me for my services, what I thought I was worth—precious metals and gems. I'm sorry."

  They rose to their feet, and Vale looked around them. He counted seven humanoid skeletons that lay beneath the trees, half-hidden beneath ivy and branches and ferns. Two seemed to be seraphim—Vale could see the bones of their wings. The others were humans. He wondered how ancient the latter were. Were here the original inhabitants of these lands, killed before the seraphim had fallen from Edinnu? Or were here other Vir Requis, perhaps survivors of the ancient war, perhaps even escaped slaves?

  He knelt by one of the skeletons. Its leather pack had opened, spilling out its contents. Most of what had been inside had rotted away, but a glass bottle still lay here, half-buried in the soil. When Vale pried it loose, he found amber liquid inside. He pulled off the cork and smelled something stinging and vaguely sweet.

  "whiskey!" Tash said, eyes widening. "As good as gold." She froze. "Maybe there's real gold here too. Real gold the skeletons had!"

  Vale rolled his eyes. "Tash, we're not grave robbers."

  "They're not in graves, so it's fine." She darted between the skeletons but found nothing. "Damn, they're not even wearing any clothes or armor. Not a belt buckle to be found. What happened to their stuff?"

  She kept exploring the area until she found a burrow, its entrance draped with vines and lichen. When Tash pulled the curtains aside, she revealed a cavern dug into a hillside, and she gasped. At once she crawled inside.

  "Tash!" Vale groaned and followed her. He knelt before the burrow, lay down on his stomach, and crawled in after her.

  They found themselves in a rounded den, not much larger than the cave outside of Tofet. It was so small they had to remain on their bellies, and their bodies pressed together.

  "It's where the creatures lived," Tash said. "Stinks in here. But look—back there."

  She burrowed deeper, pushed aside dry leaves, and uncovered a cache of rusted old metal. A few pieces were nearly disintegrating but others looked newer. Vale helped her excavate the treasure, and they laid out their findings on the grass outside the burrow. They found a coat of chain mail, two steel helmets coated with silver leaf, a bronze shield inlaid with silver stars, and a battle axe engraved with old runes in the language of ancient men. The artifacts were rusty but still usable. In addition to these tools of war, they found a decorative lantern, shaped as a dragon's head, complete with a tinderbox for lighting its fuel.

  "I'm taking the axe," Tash said. She darted forward, tried to lift it, and groaned. Its steel head thumped back down onto the ground. "I think I'll just take a helmet and shield instead. And the whiskey. And the lantern. And the skeleton's fancy leather pack for my fancy things."

  Leaving the centipede creatures to rot, they traveled downhill—him in armor, both wearing helmets. The axe felt good in Vale's hands. For so many years, he had swung a pickaxe at stone. Next time he saw his masters, he silently vowed, he would swing this axe into their flesh.

  LEYLEET

  They flew through the night, creatures of darkness, sons and daughters of sin. They laughed. They hissed. They drooled. They rutted in the sky, groaning, screaming, bat wings beating. They flew onward on the hunt, nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of the world they had not seen in so long.

  "We are free!" Leyleet shrieked, voice rolling across the landscape. "Free to hunt! Free to breed! Free to taste blood and suck marrow from bones."

  The moon vanished behind the clouds as if it too feared the Rancid Angels. No stars shone. But the eyes of the fallen were sharp, piercing the night. Their ears picked up the stir of every mouse in the fields below, the scent of every living thing that cowered. And as the Sixteen flew over the fields, their dark wings spread wide, and all the land below cowered. Insects burrowed deeper underground. Birds awoke in their nests, frozen in fear. Those seraphim who lived outside the city of Shayeen, dwelling in villages and villas upon the hills, woke from their slumber, drenched in cold sweat, not knowing the danger but sensing it in every bone. Babes screamed. Children hid under their beds, preferring to face the ghosts in those shadows than the nameless terror that flew above. Even the farmlands wilted, the trees cracked, and dead fish washed onto the banks of the Te'ephim.

  The Sixteen were out tonight, flying again after centuries in their prison of stone. The dark seraphim. The traitors to the crown. The cursed. Their screams shattered the sky and rotted the land like tar spilling across fields.

  "I smell her, comrades!" Leyleet screamed. She laughed, dipped in the sky, beat her wings, and soared higher. "The girl traveled here. The girl is ahead! Meliora is near."

  Leyleet raised the girl's nightgown, brought the silk to her nose, and inhaled deeply. Pleasure tingled through her, making Leyleet shudder. The half-breed whore smelled like innocence and sex, like purity and corruption, like a princess and a queen of rebels. The aroma was intoxicating, almost too powerful to bear.

  When I catch you, Meliora, I will bring you back alive to your brother . . . but not before I hurt you. Not before I smell your blood, your insides.

  She stuffed the nightgown back into her breastplate. No longer did Leyleet wear the stinking rags her captors had clad her in, but neither did she wear the gilded armor of seraphim. An iron breastplate, black as the night, covered her torso, and her white hair streamed out from the back of a dark helm. In one hand she gripped a sickle of jagged steel. Around her, her comrades were similarly armored. Their bat wings spread wide, their white hair streamed as banners, and their eyes blazed in the night like cruel stars. As they screeched, the sound cracked trees below and seemed to shatter the air itself, louder than thunder, and the light of their eyes blazed brighter than lightning. They were the Sixteen. They were the cursed ones. They were a storm unleashed upon the land that would never be imprisoned again.

  "Smell her, comrades!" Leyleet cackled. "I smell her in the water, on the wind, the sweet stench of her skin, her blood, her beating heart. Follow, friends! Follow to Meliora."

  They flew around her, laughter like snapping bones, drool falling like rain, wilting the trees below.

  Leyleet was licking her lips, imagining Meliora's taste, when she saw the fire ahead.

  Twenty flames burned in the sky ahead, leaving trails of smoke. When Leyleet inhaled, she smelled their stench—brimstone, metal, holiness. She spat.

  "Chariots of fire," she hissed.

  Around her, her comrades howled. Their wings beat in a storm. Their faces twisted, fangs bared.

  "Seraphim!" they cried. "Cruel seraphim! Seeking our prize, seeking our prey!"

  The distant chariots of fire were moving fast, heading in the same direction as the Sixteen, but they were not fast enough. Leyleet and her comrades kept gaining, and soon she could make out the firehorses, four of the flaming spirits pulling each chariot. Inside the vessels she saw them: the seraphim.

  "Cruel masters," she hissed. "They imprisoned us, my brothers and sisters!" Her voice rose to a roar. "Halos shine upon their heads, while ours were stripped and we were locked in stone. Now they fly to claim our sweet Meliora, the virgin whose blood was promised to us. Fly, my Rancid Angels! Show them the darkness of our shadow."

  Crying out in fury and joy, they flew.

  Their screams tore the land below, ripping canyons into the earth. A tree burst into dark flames, and the fires spread. The clouds churned above, raining ash. With black wings and leering smiles, the dark ones swarmed.

  The chariots of fire wheeled in the sky, turning to charge toward them.

  "The dark seraphim!" their riders cried. "The fallen ones have escaped!"

  Leyleet cackled, her laughter so loud it slammed against the chariots ahead, scattering their flames. "Kneel before us, h
oly ones! Kneel and beg for mercy as you made us kneel. Beg us for your lives!"

  Yet the seraphim—noble fools!—kept charging to battle, sure they could be heroes, holy warriors facing evil, as if the Cursed Ones were beasts like weredragons or griffins.

  We are not beasts, Leyleet thought, laughing. We are not monsters to vanquish with holy light. We are the greatest sons and daughters of Saraph, the cursed among the cursed, those who shed their feathers and halos to reveal the purity within.

  With battle cries, with shattering shrieks, the seraphim of light and the seraphim of shadow slammed together.

  Leyleet laughed as the firehorses charged across her, as she flew between them, lashing her sickle. Her blade sliced through the flames, cutting into the stony flesh within, scattering embers and burning blood. The lances of seraphim thrust toward her, and Leyleet soared, rising so fast the air slammed behind her in thunder. She plunged downward, sickle swinging, knocking back the lances, slicing through necks, faces, bowels, spraying red curtains. Her comrades fought around her, laughing as they lashed their sickles.

  "You have halos, holy ones!" she screeched, voice as high as shattering glass, so loud it tore into their eardrums. "Your halos still glow!"

  She swooped toward a chariot. Its rider charged toward her, and Leyleet parried its lance, streamed overhead, and lashed her sickle. The blade sliced through the seraph's halo, scattering light, and the man screamed. She swung her sickle lower, slicing through the top of his skull, exposing the brain within, then driving down to tear the firehorses apart. The chariot and the corpse within plunged toward the earth like a comet.

  "You still have wings!" she cried. "The wings of angels!"

  A few of the seraphim still flew, their chariots fallen. Leyleet laughed, charged toward one, and grabbed his thrusting spear. She snapped the shaft between her jaws, then swooped and rose behind the seraph. She grabbed the man's wings, swung her sickle, sliced them off, then kept digging.

  "You will have cursed wings like ours!" she cried, laughing, tugging out the screaming man's ribs through his back, pulling out the lungs, forming dripping wings of flesh and bones. "Now fly! Fly, cursed one!"

  She tossed the man free, letting him fall to the distant ground.

  Five seraphim flew toward her from all sides, enclosing her in a ring of light. Leyleet licked her lips, her heart soaring.

  They reached her. They thrust their lances.

  She spun in a circle, sickle shattering their blades. They kept charging, and she spun faster, her blade scattering blood, tearing into their torsos, tugging out the entrails. She grabbed the slick serpents, tugging, pulling them closer, weaving them together, sending the corpses falling down. One seraph still made an attempt to fly toward her. She drove her fist into his chest, tugged out the still-beating heart, and feasted.

  The seraphim had dared to challenge her. They fell, a rain of blood. In the sky, the Sixteen still flew, laughing as they fed upon hearts, livers, bones that crunched. They ate greedily, staining their chests, licking their fingers, then mating in the sky, slick with the blood of their enemies, singing for their victory.

  "Fly on!" Leyleet cried. "Fly on with full bellies, with bloodlust kindled. Fly on and we will feast upon the blood of a princess."

  They chanted all around her. "To Meliora! To Meliora!"

  Leyleet grinned as she flew onward. Ishtafel had commanded her to bring his sister back alive, but alive could mean many things, and the Sixteen would have their fun before dragging what remained back to Ishtafel. Meliora's heart would still beat, but Ishtafel had said nothing about feasting upon her limbs.

  Leyleet licked her lips, her wings ruffling over the wind.

  I will drink you, Meliora. I will gnaw on your living bones as I drag you back to your brother. You might have escaped him, but you will not escape me.

  ELORY

  She walked through the forest, her sword drawn, waiting for enemies to emerge from behind every tree, boulder, and hilltop.

  The land here is beautiful, Elory thought. Pines, carob trees, and cypresses grew upon the rolling landscape. Boulders of chalk and granite dotted the land, and anemones and cyclamens grew between them. Sparrows and finches bustled among mint bushes, ants scurried in their hives, and gopher holes rose from wild grass. The Te'ephim River gurgled to her left, lined with rushes, and ibises and herons drank from its water.

  And yet, despite the beauty of this place, Elory still felt like she were back in Tofet.

  Every bird that fluttered out from a bush, Elory started and winced, expecting a lash's blow. Every tree branch that creaked in the wind, she raised her arm protectively, expecting a blow from a master's fist. Even walking through patches of grass, no movement or sound around her, her heart kept racing, her eyes darting nervously, her muscles tense and ready to bolt. At her side, Meliora walked with her sword sheathed, but Elory kept her blade drawn, forever ready for more violence; she could not imagine a day without violence.

  Meliora walked closer to her. "Elory, it's all right. You can sheathe your sword."

  "I'll keep it drawn." Elory nodded. "Just in case."

  Meliora raised her eyebrows. "Isn't your arm tired?"

  "I'm used to hauling baskets of bitumen that weigh many times more." She smiled thinly. "I can carry a sword."

  Meliora looked at her, eyes soft in concern. Her hair was slowly growing back; golden stubble covered her head, almost long enough for fingers to grasp. Her wounds were healing too, the scrapes and cuts on her body closed and scabbed. Even the wounds on her shoulder blades looked less swollen and inflamed; Elory had helped clean them just an hour ago in the river.

  My wounds too are healing, Elory thought. The whip's cuts on my back are scabbed over, the pain in my arm is fading, and my bruises are fading, but the wounds inside me remain.

  "Are you sure you're all right?" Meliora whispered.

  "You have to understand." Elory stared steadily into her sister's eyes. "All my life, I was beaten. Brutalized. Unable to resist as they cut me, kicked me, tortured me. For the first time in my life, I hold a weapon. A real weapon. An ancient sword of Requiem—Lemuria, blade of Queen Kaelyn herself. For the first time, I fight back against our enemies."

  Meliora lowered her head. "And all my life, I was pampered, spoiled, fed sweets, perfumed, sheltered, and lied to. Unable to resist as they fed me the fairy tales. I never held anything more dangerous than a dessert spoon. Yet now I too hold a sword of ancient Requiem. And I too will fight our enemies." She drew Amerath, touched the blade to Lemuria, and smiled thinly. "I will always fight by your side, sister. Whenever you rest, whenever you sleep, whenever you're afraid or hurt, I'm here for you. I will never leave you. I will always walk the winding path with you, watching over you, and I will always love you."

  Elory rolled her eyes. "You're going to make me sheathe my sword so I can hug you, aren't you?"

  Meliora yawned. "Forget hugs. I want some sleep. I don't like walking in daylight, and I'm exhausted." She pointed. "I see a cave there on the hilltop, and I see some olive and fig trees too. Let's go eat and then sleep. We'll walk more at night."

  They walked uphill together, moving between bushes along a natural path strewn with goat droppings. As they approached the cave, Elory's fear did not ease; if anything it grew. What if Ishtafel was hiding inside this cave? Ridiculous, she told herself. Ridiculous! Ishtafel was probably back in Shayeen, only his underlings still scanning the wilderness.

  I must learn to put aside my fear, she told herself, walking onward, and inhaled deeply. Tofet is far away. Ishtafel is far away. It's been a full day since we saw chariots of fire. We're safe here, many miles from danger. We're safe.

  Yet her heart would not slow down, and her hand sweated around her hilt.

  "I'll go check those trees for fruit." Meliora pointed. "Will you check the cave, Elory? Make sure there are no warthogs living in this one like the last one."

  Elory's breath shook in her lungs. Her head spun, and cold swea
t trickled down her back. Why could she not stop this fear? It grew more than ever, and she could feel those whips again. Once more, she was stepping through the agony of Tofet, trying to work fast enough, cowering from the overseers. Meliora was gone. She had vanished between the trees, and Elory was all alone here. Alone in the open. Exposed. In danger.

  Don't hurt me, she thought, eyes stinging. Please. I'll be a good slave. I'll work hard. Don't hurt me, Master.

  She forced in air.

  Breathe.

  She exhaled.

  Calm yourself. Be strong.

  She looked at her blade.

  This is a sword of Requiem. Be as brave as those who bore it before you, for you too are a daughter of dragons.

  She took another step uphill toward the cave, her heart rate finally slowing, when the beast emerged from within, howling and charging toward her.

  Elory screamed.

  The creature leaping toward her was ragged, wild, some kind of ape covered in yellow fur and rags. Inhuman blue eyes stared with bloodlust. In one hand, the animal swung a heavy bone like a mace.

  Elory nearly cringed, nearly begged.

  I am a daughter of dragons.

  She charged forward and swung her sword.

  Her blade sliced through the bone club, sending its top half flying.

  The wild ape before her hopped back, crouched, and hissed. It grabbed a heavy rock in its paw.

  "Back!" the beast cried. "Back, thief. Back! Who are you? Are you a seraph? Back!" The creature tossed its stone.

  Elory leaped aside, and the stone sailed by and clattered down the hillside. She looked back up, narrowing her eyes.

  No, not an ape, she thought. A man.

  "I'm not a seraph!" she said. "I'm not an enemy."

  The man above still crouched, reaching out for another stone. He was a young man, she saw. Probably in his early twenties, maybe even younger. But his blond hair and beard were so long, dusty, and tangled, that he looked like an animal. His rags were threadbare, falling apart, revealing tanned skin. His blue eyes regained some humanity as they stared at her, and he tilted his head.