Requiem's Prayer (Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  "I'm here for you, my king," she whispered, her breath soft against him. "Should you need me for anything—if only to whisper of your pain, to feel my warmth, to know that I love you—I'm here. I will always fight for King Aeternum of Requiem."

  He turned his head toward Bryn and found her face near his; their lips were only an inch or two apart. Her warm brown eyes stared into his, full of love for her king, full of warmth, comfort. She caressed his cheek and whispered softly, "I'm always here for you."

  Jeid looked away. His jaw clenched and his belly felt tight. "Bryn, we cannot survive here. All our food is gone. The rivulet of water in the lower tunnel has all but run dry. How much longer can we survive on worms and beetles and whatever else we find in the darkness?" He looked back at her. "Dorvin wants us to fly out, to face the sphinxes head-on, to die in a great battle. We are fewer than a hundred, and they cover the sky. We can choose between a slow death in darkness and a hot death in fire and blood. And I don't know what to choose."

  She shook her head wildly, her orange curls swaying. "I do not abandon hope. Not yet. You taught me that. You taught me that there's always hope, even in the pit of despair, even in the greatest darkness where no light shines." She squeezed his hand. "And so I still hope. Perhaps it's blind hope, a fool's hope, but it's better than despair. Whatever you choose, my king, I will follow you. I will fight at your side or die at your side. But until then I'll believe that we will live, that we will see Requiem again." She raised her chin, and her eyes shone. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

  Jeid looked up above him. He saw only the dark stone ceiling of the cave, but somewhere above all the rock waited the sky. The sky of Requiem. No, he would not abandon that sky, would never forget the wind beneath his wings, the glow of the stars, or the pale columns of their lost hall.

  If we fly out, we will die in the sphinx's smoke. If we stay here, we will starve or fall to the creature in the holes. Jeid kept racking his mind, seeking some solution. Even if he could become a dragon in the narrow tunnels, his claws would be unable to dig in these mountains, not with the walls formed of granite. Death beyond. Death within. How could—

  Again screams echoed across the tunnels. Above them rose an inhuman shriek.

  Jeid and Bryn leaped to their feet.

  They ran deeper into the cave, following the sound.

  They raced past other survivors, around a corner, and found a woman trembling and pointing.

  "There!" she cried. "There, I saw it!"

  Jeid grimaced and ran. He reached a fork in the tunnel, heard another scream, ran down a slope, and he saw it there.

  "Stars damn it."

  A long black leg shone ahead. Another shriek sounded, too high-pitched for a human or animal. White eyes blazed, perfectly round. A shadow loomed over a hollowed-out body. Smooth legs scuttled and leaped up.

  Jeid leaped toward the creature and swung his sword. The blade sliced through air. When he looked above him, he saw many legs folding together and pulling into a hole in the ceiling—a different hole than the one Dorvin was guarding farther down the tunnels. Jeid leaped into the air and swung the sword again. He hit a leg, and the creature screeched and vanished into the burrow.

  Jeid's feet slammed back onto the floor. The creature was gone. He looked at his sword and found the blade covered with steaming black blood.

  Bryn raced up to his side, panting. "What was it?" she asked. "I saw something. I saw eyes. Spider legs. What was it?"

  Jeid stared up at the hole, then back at the blood on his blade.

  "Our way out.”

  SLYN

  He sat on the Oak Throne, gazed at the ruin of Requiem, and drank hot blood from the weredragon skull.

  Three of Requiem's columns had shattered in the battle; they now lay fallen across the hall. Beyond the standing columns, most of the birches had burned; they now rose like charred skeletons, their leaves gone, their branches black. Blood still stained the marble tiles, and the scent of smoke still filled the air.

  Hundreds of Widejaw warriors lounged across the hall. They sat upon the fallen columns, drinking from skulls. Mud stained their fur cloaks and tattooed faces, and the blood of their enemies stained their augmented mouths. Campfires burned upon the marble tiles of Requiem's hall, and upon them roasted the flesh of the enemy. Limbs and torsos of dead weredragons crackled and dripped their juices. In death, the creatures were like any other men and women—savory and delicious.

  "Bring me meat!" Slyn roared. "You, the dark one. Fetch me a leg."

  The dark-haired weredragon knelt by a campfire, a chain running from her ankle to a column. Bruises darkened her face. The chains would keep the wench from shifting. Three other women knelt at the feet of his throne, similarly chained.

  "Meat, whore!" Slyn said, pointing at the raven-haired woman.

  The weredragon nodded, too fearful to resist. She had tasted his fist the last time she had disobeyed him; her two missing front teeth served as a reminder. She stepped toward a campfire, her chain jangling. Her face was dead, expressionless, too hurt to show any more pain. She lifted one of the roasting weredragon legs—the leg of a child, small and soft—and carried it back toward the Oak Throne.

  Slyn grabbed the meat from her. With his other hand, he backhanded the woman. "Now get back on your knees. You are a weredragon. You will kneel before your king." He stared at the rest of them. "That goes for all of you! You will remain kneeling in the presence of Slyn, King of Requiem." He stared at them one by one, savoring the sight of their cuts and bruises. "Aye . . . I know what you're thinking, you whores. You're craving the magic. Craving to shift into dragons, to burn me, to burn my men, to fly off to find your husbands." He barked a laugh. "I am your husband now. I am your only king. You are mine, and you will serve me, or I take more teeth."

  He unslung the pouch that hung around his neck and tossed it toward the chained women. Teeth spilled out across the marble tiles—their teeth. The weredragons lowered their heads, shivering, struggling not to weep. They had learned that weeping meant more pain.

  Slyn burst out laughing. All across the hall, his fellow Widejaws also laughed. Above in the sky, a dozen sphinxes flew in patrol, and their voices too boomed down with cruel mirth.

  "You heard me!" Slyn rose to his feet and held the roasted leg above his head. "I am the King of Requiem! I sit upon the Oak Throne!" He snorted. "Kneel before your king."

  His fellow Widejaws laughed. Trembling, the captive weredragons knelt and bowed before him.

  Slyn sat back down and stretched out his legs. He took a deep bite from the roasted weredragon leg. Juices flowed through his mouth, and he shut his eyes and sighed with pleasure. Divine. Simply divine.

  "There is no taste better than human flesh, do you know?" he said. "Even the flesh of a weredragon's human form." He grabbed one chain and yanked a golden-haired weredragon toward him. "It tastes like wild game, but softer . . . richer." He licked his lips. "Fatty and tender."

  The golden-haired weredragon lowered her eyes. Her lip trembled. Slyn stroked her cheek.

  "You are tender too," he whispered. "You are also rich . . . soft." He tugged her closer and licked her cheek. "You too are delicious. You taste like fear and sweat and blueberries."

  She trembled. "Please, my lord."

  "Please?" Slyn laughed and clutched her cheeks, squeezing them. "Are you begging too for a taste? I'll let you taste it." He held the meat up to her mouth. "Eat it. Take a bite." He laughed. "You were holding a child in the battle, weren't you? Yes . . . I saw you protecting the boy. Perhaps this is him, this roasted meat before you. Perhaps this is your son." Slyn grinned and licked his chops. "Taste him. Feed upon him. Savor the flavor."

  She looked away, grimacing. A tear flowed from her eye. Slyn pressed his fingers into her jaw, forcing her mouth open. He brought the meat closer.

  "Slyn of Widejaw!"

  The voice boomed across the hall.

  Slyn raised his eyes and cursed. He shoved the wom
an aside. She fell onto the tiles and scuttled away, chain clanking.

  "Maggoty bones," Slyn cursed.

  The demon Raem stood across the hall of Requiem, wreathed in black smoke. The creature spread out black wings, soared across the hall, and landed before the throne. Those wings were woven of human skin; Slyn had flayed enough enemies to recognize human leather.

  "Welcome, mighty demon," Slyn said, meeting the creature's eyes. He leaned back in his throne. "Will you feed with us?"

  Slyn would not bow, not lower his eyes, not call this demon "lord." He was King of Requiem now; he had no gods nor masters. But he would welcome Raem into his hall. He would show him respect. Because of Raem he had his kingdom; he would not forget that, and he would show the demon hospitality.

  Raem stared at the campfires. He stared at the human leg clutched in Slyn's hand. He stared up at Slyn's eyes.

  And he shouted.

  His voice tore across the hall, cracking a column.

  "Where is Laira?" The demon's eyes burned with red light. "Where is my daughter?"

  Slyn gritted his teeth, struggling against the urge to cover his ears. Slowly he rose to his feet.

  "The whore fled us." He spat. "So did a few of the others. My men are chasing them. They—"

  "Did you slay their king?" Raem stretched out his tentacle and grabbed Slyn's arm. "Did you slay King Aeternum?"

  The demon's tentacle dug into Slyn's arm, tearing the skin, sucking up blood. Slyn could see the crimson liquid flowing through the tentacle's veins.

  "The king escaped into a labyrinth of stone," Slyn said. "Five hundred of my sphinxes are besieging him. Laira is lost. I have three hundred sphinxes scouring the forests for—"

  "You will find them!" Raem shouted. "You will find the king and shatter him. You will find Laira and bring her to me. You will not sit here, drinking and feasting, while weredragons still live. You will not keep weredragons as slaves for your base pleasures."

  The demon turned toward the weredragon women who cowered on the floor, chained and beaten. Raem sniffed and his face reddened.

  "Those slaves are mine!" Slyn said, stepped forward. "I captured them in battle. I—"

  Raem grabbed one woman in his tentacle, closed his lobster claw around her neck, and severed her head.

  Slyn hissed and froze. The other women screamed and tried to flee, but their chains only let them run for several feet. Raem moved between them methodically, decapitating one after another. One of the women shifted into a dragon. Her chain tore through her ankle, ripping off her foot. The dragon beat her wings, rose several feet in the air, and wailed as Raem's tentacle grabbed her tail and yanked her down. The demon thrust his claw through the beast's back, and the dragon returned to human form and twitched on the floor, then fell still.

  Covered in blood, Raem turned back toward Slyn. "You will keep only Laira alive," he said. "And she will be mine, Slyn. Do you understand? I gave you your magic. I gave you your kingdom. I can take both away. I give you one more chance. Next time I return, if you've not accomplished your mission, it will be your flesh roasting upon these fires."

  With that, the demon stretched out his wings and soared. Within an instant, Raem vanished into the clouds, leaving only the stench of sulfur and acid.

  Slyn remained standing at the base of his throne. He fumed. His men all stared at him, awaiting his reaction.

  How dare he enter this hall? How dare the demon humiliate me in front of my men? The fires blazed through Slyn, and he ground his teeth. He tossed his meat aside.

  "You heard him!" Slyn shouted. "Why are you lounging here like useless lumps? Charan, gather your men, fly out, tear up every tree until you find the missing girl. Herosh! Join the others at the mountain. Shatter the entire mountain if you must, but bring me the king's body. Go! Fly!"

  The Widejaws grunted and shifted, becoming sphinxes. They beat their wings and rose past the columns. They vanished into the clouds. Only a hundred men, the women, and the children remained behind, standing upon the bloodstained tiles and between the charred birches.

  Slyn walked toward a campfire, grabbed a roast rib, and returned to his throne. He sat down among the coiling oak roots and branches, sniffed at the meat, and tossed is aside. His appetite was gone.

  LAIRA

  She struggled against the leafy vines that bound her to the boulder, unable to free herself. She tried to shift, only for the vines to bind her magic as securely they bound her body.

  "Druids, free us!" Laira cried. "You cannot do this."

  At her side, Maev was similarly strapped to the same boulder; the rock rose from the grass, large as a hut. The druids' arrows had cast a web of leafy, sticky tendrils around them, and that web now secured them to the stone. Maev looked like some thrashing insect wrapped in green cobwebs. Like Laira, she fought and kicked, unable to free herself.

  "Stars damn it!" Maev shouted, face flushed. "Release me and fight me like men. Cowards! I'll tear your limbs off. I'll crack open your heads, scoop out your brains, and piss into your skulls." She spat, trying to reach the druids, but her spit only landed a foot away. "Unbind me or I swear I will burn you all. I will rip your bones out of your living flesh and play them as flutes as you die."

  Laira relaxed in her bonds and sighed. She looked at Maev. "I don't think that'll convince them to release us, Maev."

  The tattooed, golden-haired woman growled, spat again, and tugged mightily at the leafy strands. "Those cowards. Those sons of whores. I'll burn down this whole village."

  With another sigh, Laira looked back at their surroundings. The boulder they were tied to rose from a grassy valley beneath an overcast sky. Hills strewn with jagged dark stones circled the valley like walls, shrouded in mist. Four towering inuksuks rose upon the hilltops, surrounding the dale—statues roughly resembling human shape, constructed of massive boulders larger than men. Mist floated around their jagged stone legs, and deep green runes appeared upon their sandstone chests, one per inuksuk: a barren tree, a tree sprouting young leaves, a tree in full summer growth, and a tree whose leaves were falling.

  Below in the valley, guarded by these giants of stone, rose mounds of earth and stone. Small archways, constructed of many small rocks, led into these homes. Grass grew upon the mounds; if not for the doors, they would have seemed like hillocks rather than dwellings.

  Druids moved across the valley, dressed in dark green robes, bearing staffs formed of tree roots. Pewter amulets hung around their necks on leather throngs, and heavy hoods shadowed their faces. Hearing the two prisoners shout, the druids turned their heads toward them. One druid stepped forward, the wind beating his cloak. He was an old man of perhaps sixty years—few men lived that long in a world of wild beasts, wars, and harsh winters—and white streaked his long auburn beard. His eyes were deep green flecked with blue, gleaming beneath tufted red eyebrows. His face was weathered and deeply lined, the nose large, the jaw wide, the brow weary and creased.

  "The anger burns through you." The old druid stood before Laira and Maev. Sadness filled those deep, moss-colored eyes. "Your fire forever screams for release. You crave the dragonfire, desperate to let it sear your pain away." He nodded and his eyes dampened. "I know of such anger, of such pain. I know why you thrash in your bonds, why you scream. But my children . . . dragonfire is not the answer, not a cure for loneliness. Dragonfire cannot burn your pain away, only make it flare."

  Tied to the boulder, Maev and Laira glanced at each other, then back at the druid.

  Laira spoke carefully. "Why do you think us lonely?"

  Maev was less diplomatic. "If you don't release us, old man, my dragonfire will burn the flesh off your bones, torch every hut here, and make you all scream so loudly your pretty stone statues will crumble." She howled with rage. "Release us!"

  The old druid nodded. "I am Auberon of the Cured Druids. I was once like you. I was once . . . a weredragon." He reached out and stroked Maev's face, pulling his hand back when she tried to bite him. "I too was once s
o angry, so afraid, so lonely, so full of dragonfire. I found a cure." His eyes dampened. "And now I cure others. I can cure you too. I can heal you."

  Laira's eyes widened. She gasped. Another Vir Requis! Her heart leaped, and she tugged at the vines binding her to the boulder. Despite being tied in this valley, hope leaped inside her. More Vir Requis lived!

  "Auberon!" Laira said. "Auberon, it's not a curse. It's not a disease. I thought so myself once. But . . ." Her eyes stung with tears. "But we have a kingdom now. We have a king. And we know that our magic is pure, a gift from the stars, not a disease. Not—"

  Auberon's face changed. All his piety seemed to vanish, and rage burned in his eyes. His mouth twisted into a sneer. "It is a filthy shame! It is an impurity! A cruel curse, a—" He caught himself and forced a few deep breaths. He bowed his head. "Forgive me. Though I've been cured, some of the old anger still fills me." He shuddered, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply until his face calmed. "Perhaps some dragonfire still courses through my veins, though I strive daily to expel it. Watch, Laira and Maev. You have come here on the right day. Today is a Day of Redemption."

  Farther back in the valley, the other druids—Laira counted fifty of them—lifted their staffs, and their voices rose as one. "Day of Redemption!"

  Auberon walked toward them, leaving the boulder behind. He too raised his staff. Pewter charms, hanging from the shaft on leather throngs, chinked as he walked. "The Cured Druids welcome another to our order! Today a soul is redeemed."

  The druids formed a ring in the misty valley. Around them, the inuksuks stared down from the rocky hills, four gods of the seasons. The veil of gray clouds swirled above, letting in only a single ray of light. As if summoned by the druids' call, the sunbeam fell within the ring, illuminating a flat stone on the grass.

  Auberon raised his spear overhead. His voice boomed out across the valley. "Step forth, Eeras of the Mossoak Tribe. Step forth and be cured."

  A man emerged from one of the grassy mounds. He wore a simple canvas tunic over leather britches. His feet were bare, his face unshaven, his hair scraggly and muddy. His eyes darted and his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.