Crown of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  He flipped over, heart bursting into a gallop, and saw her there.

  "Tash!"

  She lay on her side on the sand, coughing. The jewels she had worn in the fever dream were gone. Once more, she wore her baggy harem pants, and only a single jewel shone in her navel. Sand and seaweed caked her hair.

  For a moment, Vale couldn't even move. So much love for her filled him that it hurt.

  I almost lost her. She is as precious to me as the halls of Requiem and all her heroes of the afterlife.

  Vale pulled Tash into his arms, and he nearly crushed her against his chest, kissing her hair, her forehead, her lips.

  "I . . . I was dreaming," she whispered, blinking in confusion. "I was dancing in a great fleet of Requiem ships. I saw dragons, Vale! Real dragons! Dragons of the past . . ."

  Holding her against him, Vale looked over her shoulder. In the sand, hundreds of crates had shattered. A single chest stood among the wreckage, still whole. A faint light clung to it, then rose in wisps.

  "Dragons will fly again." He kissed Tash's forehead. "Again we will soar."

  ELORY

  She sat in the dark valley, her shame burning like her wounded ear.

  No, not a wounded ear, Elory thought. I no longer have an ear at all. A missing ear. She lowered her head. A deformity.

  She glanced across the campsite. Meliora sat farther back in the valley, her hood dousing her fiery halo. But even in the pale moonlight, Elory could see her sister's beauty—the high cheekbones, pale skin, large glowing eyes, and short hair like softest golden fleece. Meliora's limbs were long, well-formed, the body of a goddess carved of marble.

  At Meliora's side sat Lucem, conversing with her softly. While Lucem had none of Meliora's ethereal beauty, he was handsome in his own way. Rugged. Unshaven. Slender but strong. His eyes were bright, and he moved his hands animatedly as he talked, telling stories and jokes, making Meliora laugh.

  Elory looked back at her lap. If before she had felt plain by Meliora—what with her scrawny limbs, short stature, and darker skin—now she felt downright monstrous. Meliora's wounded cheek was even healing nicely, only hours after the battle, her seraph ichor shrinking the cuts. Meanwhile, the left side of Elory's head was a nightmare. When she touched it, she winced. Only the shell of her ear remained around the canal. Most of the auricle was gone. With Elory's short hair—it had barely grown since leaving Tofet—the wound was exposed to all.

  I'm ugly now, she thought. A deformed creature. I'll never be beautiful like Meliora, like Tash . . . never be someone whom a man could love.

  She looked back at Lucem, cursing the feelings inside her. Why must those feelings surface? She had felt something for Tash, a low flame, perhaps a mere spark, something that could never grow, for Tash's kisses had been a thing of duty, not love. And now . . . now, even here in dark danger, Elory felt new love kindle within her, this love burning bright. Yet why would Lucem look at her when he could gaze at Meliora?

  She noticed that Lucem had stopped talking, that he was looking at her. Elory's cheeks burned and her fingers tingled. Hurriedly she looked away, shame and embarrassment now battling within her.

  "Elory!" he said. "Elory, come sit near us. There are some lovely, comfortable limestone recliners here." He patted the boulder he sat on. "Mmm . . . limestone! It's what Queen Kalafi used to sleep on."

  Elory merely looked at her lap where she clasped her fingers.

  Through the ringing in her ears, Elory heard Meliora whisper something sharply, but she couldn't make out the words. Pebbles cascaded as Lucem rose, walked across the emptiness separating them, and sat down beside Elory.

  "Hmmm, not bad!" he said, patting the rocky ground. "My backside detects some granite pebbles—nice and sharp!—some dust, just a tad of chalk . . . very comfortable." He leaned toward her. "Nada? Not even a little smile?"

  She couldn't help it. She gave him that little smile, but it soon faded. She couldn't even bear to look at him, and she turned her head away so he couldn't see her wounded ear.

  "Does it hurt terribly?" Lucem asked, and his voice softened.

  Elory shook her head. "It hurts, but not as much as I thought it would. It's just that . . ." She twisted her fingers. "I feel ugly."

  His eyes widened. "You feel ugly? I once had a vulture attack my face; it thought I was a dead carcass. When I was a kid and looked out my hut window, seraphim kept trying to arrest me for mooning. I once turned milk to yogurt just by looking at it." He touched her chin. "You're beautiful, little one."

  He's just saying that, Elory thought. He just wants me to feel better is all.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  He gasped. "You don't believe me! I can tell. But it's true. And no missing little ear can change that. It can't take away your large, brown eyes, your smiling lips, the kindness I see in your face." Gently, he pulled her face toward his. "You're absolutely the most adorable little thing I've seen."

  Elory looked over his shoulder, and she saw that Meliora had stepped away, was now a mere shadow, too far away to hear them. She looked back at Lucem, and she saw the honesty in his eyes. His hand reached out to caress her fingers, and her heart quivered.

  He likes me? Lucem—likes me?

  "You're not ugly either." She smiled. "I wouldn't say you're the most adorable thing I've ever seen—those baby pigs we saw yesterday beat you—but you're up there."

  She leaned against him, and he wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek. For the first time in many days—perhaps in her life—Elory felt safe.

  LEYLEET

  She screamed in the caves, coated in blood and flesh. She tossed back her head, opened her arms wide, laughed, licked the blood.

  "We slew the gods!" She rose in the cave, wreathed in black fire, her laughter shattering against the walls. "We slew the champions of the Eight. We are gods! We are gods! We are gods!"

  She stared down at the corpse—the Living Creatures, now the Dead Creatures. She laughed. A hysterical laugh. A laugh that tore at her wounds, ripped her thigh open, spurted out her blood, yet still she laughed, spinning around, her voice so shrill it shattered the organs in the corpses.

  "The Dead Creatures, the Dead Creatures!" she cried, and around her they chanted, her warriors, her comrades, the eleven survivors. The dark seraphim danced around the corpses, the macabre dance of death, slick with blood. "The Dead Creatures!"

  Leyleet stared at them. Four bodies linked at the wings. Four heads on each—goat, lion, eagle, man. Their bronze hides torn apart, exposing the organs within. Around them lay the corpses of four dark seraphim, their limbs torn off, their flesh burnt and melting across the skulls. The survivors too bore horrible wounds. One dark seraph flew around the cave, laughing and dancing, his legs ending with exposed bones. Another dark seraph's entrails hung loose, yet still he danced and sang for glory. A third had been burnt as badly as the corpses, but he cackled and spat upon the dead.

  Leyleet herself was wounded. The weredragons had thrust their blades deep into her thigh, into her belly. Already the wounds festered, stinking, the ichor sweet. She thrust her fingers into the wound on her thigh, dug around in the hot moistness, pulled her fingers free and licked the juices. Just to whet the appetite.

  "Feed," she said. "Feed, friends. Feed upon the dead gods and fill your souls with their strength!"

  They dived through the cave. They landed on the corpses of the Living Creatures. And the dark seraphim fed. They tugged open the cracks on the bronze bodies, pulled out organ after organ, and ripped into the flesh. They tore off the wings and chewed. They yanked free the jaws and ripped at the meat. They cracked bones, sucked out the marrow, played the bones like flutes. They paraded, gobbets of meat in their hands. And they fed upon their own dead—hunched over the fallen seraphim, ripping them open, picking at strips of meat and savoring the sweet, glistening treasures within. They licked the blood off the floor and walls, and they licked the blood off themselves, and they rutted in the puddles, slick, red, sc
reaming with their appetites.

  As Leyleet feasted, she tried to imagine feasting upon Meliora. Ishtafel needed her womb, that was all.

  Your limbs will be mine, Leyleet thought and licked her lips. We will share your delicious legs. One for me, one for you. Your arms will follow, then your face. I will deliver to Ishtafel your womb as promised, wrapped in what remains of your body . . . and he will think of me as he spills his seed into it.

  "Meliora fled these caves!" Leyleet cried. "Meliora fled as a coward, but we defeated her champion, and we absorbed its strength. The flesh of the Living Creatures fills our belly, and soon—"

  Leyleet screamed.

  Around her, the dark seraphim howled.

  They doubled over. Pain. Pain! Agony coursed through Leyleet. She clutched her belly, shivering, gagging. Rotten meat! Foul meat! The Living Creatures coiled inside her, clawing at her organs. She screamed. Blood filled her mouth.

  "Poison, poison!" the dark seraphim cried.

  Leyleet screeched, tore at her throat, clawed at her belly, desperate to tug out the meal. Poison, poison! Bad meat!

  She fell to her side, convulsing. Around her, the others writhed. Boils sprouted on their necks, bloating, growing to obscene size. As Leyleet thrashed, she touched her own neck, felt the boils rise there too, swelling to the size of her fists, then growing still.

  Across the hall, the boils twisted, ballooned, opened mouths and screamed, opened eyes and wept. When Leyleet reached to the growths on her neck, she felt their tears, their teeth biting her.

  She laughed.

  "We absorbed them!" She spoke with four mouths. "We absorbed their strength."

  She rose to her feet, and the others rose around her. Every dark seraph now sprouted four heads, each head topped with flowing white hair, each staring with blazing serpentine eyes.

  "We are the dark seraphim!" Leyleet's mouths cried out. "We are the Rancid Angels! We are the living darkness!"

  They all spun around her, shouting wordlessly.

  They beat their bat wings, the twelve that remained, and flew through the winding caves. They burst out into the night. The dark hills spread around them, and they soared toward the bloated moon.

  "We are stronger than we've ever been!" Leyleet called to them. "We are mighty. We have the strength of gods now. Hunt! Sniff them out! Find Meliora and our mouths will feed upon her. Fly!"

  Beating their dark wings, the multiple mouths shrieking, they flew into the darkness, hunting ichor and blood.

  MELIORA

  Sunset spilled across the land when they saw Khalish Mountain ahead.

  "Home of the Keymaker," Meliora whispered.

  The mountain soared, charcoal and black. A few scattered trees grew around its base, fading higher up the slopes. Many fires burned on the mountain, and at first Meliora thought them campfires, maybe torches, maybe chariots of fire, but she saw no movement of men. High on the mountaintop she could see it—the ruins of an ancient fortress.

  She turned toward her companions. Elory and Lucem were staring up at the mountain.

  "It's as if the stars fell and now burn upon it," Elory said.

  Lucem sighed. "If only the Keymaker could unlock our collars down here so we could fly up." He cracked his neck. "It's a long climb."

  They started that climb as the sun dipped below the horizon. The way was steep, and many rocks threatened to trip them, and many boulders blocked their way. The moon had thinned and barely gave off light, but the light of many fires lit their way. The flames emerged from holes in the mountainside, though Meliora could see no fuel.

  "I smell something like tar." Elory sniffed. "A little like the bitumen I used to haul in Tofet. The mountain is leaking it. That's what's causing the fires."

  "We just need some sausages to roast," Lucem said. "A nice bottle of wine and a mandolin. Maybe some taters to bake."

  "What's taters?" Elory asked him.

  "Oh, you're a precious little thing," Lucem said. "Potatoes. I forgot that they don't exist in Tofet. I used to sneak into seraph farms to steal them." He smacked his lips. "One of these days, I'm going to cook you one, Elory."

  "Taters must be a delicacy worthy of kings!" Elory said, eyes wide.

  As Meliora climbed beside them, guilt filled her. While Elory had been surviving on gruel, and while Lucem had been stealing his taters, she had been dining on delicacies: honeyed duck on beds of wild rice and leek, pears and figs stewed in honey and wine, fresh crustaceans and clams and all other treasures of the sea, and countless other fine comestibles.

  "May we all dine together in a rebuilt Requiem this time next year," Meliora said. "A fine tater feast."

  They continued climbing between the fires. They were low on water; only a few sips remained in Lucem's waterskin. They had eaten nearly all the fruit and fish they had collected on the journey here. Meliora's belly ached with hunger and her throat was parched, but she knew her pain paled in comparison to those still suffering in Tofet.

  They climbed all night, and their limbs were shaking, their bodies drenched with sweat, when they finally reached the mountaintop. Dawn rose, casting its pale light upon ancient ruins that soared before the companions.

  Meliora had expected to find a castle built atop the mountain, but it seemed like the mountaintop had been carved down to form a fortress. The stony peak had been chiseled away—the work must have taken years—forming the shape of columns, archways, turrets, parapets, and colossal statues shaped as lions, goats, and serpents. Engravings covered the columns and walls, depicting men and beasts many times the size of men.

  The castle must have once been spectacular, a marvel of architecture. But time had worn it down. The stone reliefs were faded and chipped; it was hard to tell which beasts they portrayed. The statues were cracked, and some parapets and turrets had fallen and lay strewn across the mountainside. The archways were crumbling, the parapets and columns smoothed by centuries of rain and wind.

  "Do we just walk up and knock on the door?" Lucem asked.

  "I don't see a door," Elory said.

  Meliora pointed. "But I see an entrance."

  An archway loomed ahead, leading into shadows. Perhaps wooden doors had once stood within, rotted away years ago. Two statues flanked the entrance, shaped as lions with long, twisting necks that ended with women's heads. The statues were so large they would have dwarfed dragons. Meliora led the way toward the archway, and the others followed.

  "Lower your weapons," Meliora said. "We don't want to appear threatening."

  Lucem looked up and down their bodies. "Scrawny, bruised vagabonds in rags sure are intimidating. The smell is at least." He sniffed and grimaced.

  As they walked between the towering statues, it seemed to Meliora that the stone heads turned—just the slightest!—that the statues' eyes moved, following the companions as they entered the shadows.

  A massive hall greeted them—larger even than the great banquet halls in the ziggurat of Shayeen. Dust and dirt covered the floor, hiding any fine tiles or mosaics that might lurk below. Columns soared, so wide that they could have formed towers, their limestone facades engraved with cuneiform writing in a language Meliora could not read. Iron braziers, large enough to boil men, rose from the dust, their embers long gone dark. Statues still stared with crystal eyes, shaped as hideous beings formed from different species: women with heads of snakes and wings of birds, men with the heads of horses, serpents with the faces of babes and the wings of bats. The statues too were covered in dust, and cracks ran across them.

  "This place was built by the ancient Terrans," Meliora whispered. "Thirteen city states of humans once lived in this continent. Look, see that statue? A woman with a snake's head? She is Shahazar, an ancient goddess of men. See that statue there, the one of a man with his palms open? That's Taal, the Father God."

  Lucem cocked an eyebrow. "For a seraph princess, you know a lot about the lore of men."

  Meliora smiled thinly. "My brother used to boast of slaying the gods o
f men. He claimed he was the only true god."

  "Lovely fellow, he is," Lucem said. "Can't wait to roast his godly arse with dragonfire. Now come on, enough sightseeing, more exploring. We need to find this Keymaker fellow." He coned his hands around his mouth and cried, "Keymaker!"

  The cry echoed through the hall and chambers beyond, growing louder and louder. Dust rained from the walls. The palace creaked. Meliora and Elory cringed.

  It seemed to take ages before the echoing died down and the dust settled. Meliora realized that she was holding her breath, and she shakily exhaled.

  "Lucem, hush!" Elory said. "We don't know who else might be living here."

  He looked around. "I see nobody but statues. I—"

  The palace creaked again.

  Dust showered.

  Stones moved.

  Meliora spun around toward the sound in time to see a great stone door slide down from above the archway, slam onto the floor, and seal them in the grand hall.

  Darkness fell.

  "Look what you did, Lucem," Elory whispered.

  Meliora cringed and pulled back her hood. Her halo crackled to life, casting its light across the hall. In the dancing shadows, the statues seemed to move.

  A growl rose.

  Meliora wrapped her fingers around her sword's hilt.

  "I don't suppose that was your tater-craving stomach, Mel?" Lucem whispered.

  She dared not answer, not even breathe. The growl rose again in the darkness, and a shadow stirred. Two bright eyes opened in the hall ahead, gleaming yellow in the blackness.

  At her side, she heard Elory and Lucem gasp and reach for their weapons.

  Meliora forced herself to release her hilt, to raise her open palms in a gesture of peace, mimicking the statue of Taal which rose at her side.

  "We are friends!" she called out to those eyes in the distant shadows. "We come seeking aid. We come seeking the Keymaker. I am Meliora, daughter of Queen Kalafi of the Thirteenth Dynasty. I—"