Requiem's Prayer (Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  And they might have to. She looked at the people traveling below, leading their cattle, singing and dancing at the sight of the city, of hope. They pointed, and they played timbrels and drums, and they prayed—to Taal, to Shahazar, and to her. Could this be a home for them?

  As they drew closer, Issari's heart sank.

  Gliding at her side, Tanin cursed. "Stars damn it."

  Issari nodded. "More of them. Hundreds of them. Nephilim."

  The half-demons bustled above the city, their shrieks carrying on the wind. The sunset gleamed against thousands of arrows rising from the city walls. The cries of dying, and the scent of blood, reached Issari even here.

  She looked behind her. She didn't even have to cry out; her dragons mustered, eyes bright, breath flaming, ready to fight.

  They streamed across the hills.

  They raced to the city of Tur Kal.

  And there, as the night fell, Issari roared out her cry. "Dragons of Tur Kal, hear me! I am Issari, Queen of Dragons. Rise! Rise and fight with me!"

  Nephilim buzzed toward her. Her fellow dragons flew around Issari, holding them back, burning and cutting and knocking them down. Below in the city, archers fired up at the half-demons, and swordsmen raced to hack at those nephilim who landed upon roofs and in streets.

  Issari flew higher, circling above the pyramids, above the death and bloodshed. Her cry rang across the city.

  "All in Tur Kal who can become dragons, fly with me! Your magic is a blessing, not a curse. Fly and fight with us, with the dragons of Requiem!"

  And like in Goshar, here too they rose.

  One by one. Hesitant but soon flying high. Metallic dragons. Green and blue and red dragons. Old clattering beasts and young supple dragons with eager eyes. A hundred or more rose from the city, joining her in the sky, and their fire lit the night.

  When dawn finally rose upon Tur Kal, a thousand nephilim lay dead and stinking upon its streets, slashed with claws and charred with dragonfire. Buildings lay toppled, walls fallen, domes caved in. Holes peppered the ancient pyramids.

  Among the fallen half-demons lay thousands of dead men, women, and children—the people of Tur Kal and two dozen Vir Requis.

  Issari and Tanin glided above the devastation, two single dragons in the dawn.

  "We've lost so many," Tanin whispered.

  Issari nodded. "And we gained more."

  The hundred dragons she had led here—risen from Eteer and Goshar—stood upon the walls below, bright in the sunrise, sentinels of scales. A hundred new dragons, children of Tur Kal, stood among them.

  New dragons of Requiem. Our nation grows.

  She turned to look north of the walls. The outcasts of Goshar and Eteer sprawled across the hills, gathered around smoldering campfires. These men, women, and children had no dragon magic, yet they too were her people. These too were nations she led, nations she had to protect.

  She looked back at the city. A palace rose from the ruins upon a hill, built of limestone, its columns soaring—as tall as the columns of Requiem. A stairway stretched toward the palace gates, lined with statues shaped as jackals and falcons, crystals inlaid into their eyes. The corpses of nephilim lay strewn across those stairs, giants fallen from the sky, their black blood splattered. Soldiers of Tur Kal—so small compared to the massive size the nephilim had grown to—were racing about and pointing at the two dragons above.

  "Come, Tanin," Issari said. "Here stands the Palace of Tur Kal, the home of its queen. We will speak with her."

  The two dragons glided down and landed atop the staircase. The columns soared before them, their limestone engraved with scenes of soldiers, birds, and racing hinds. An archway rose ahead, leading into a hall, and the stench of dead nephilim wafted from the staircase behind her.

  Issari and Tanin resumed human form: a woman clad in white robes, her black braid hanging across her shoulder; and a man in bronze armor, a fur cloak wrapped around him, his cheeks covered with thick stubble, his eyes dark, his frame tall.

  The palace guards stood before them, their skin tanned deep bronze, their heads bald, their beards thin and pointed and wrapped with golden rings. They wore breastplates and sandals, and they carried curved blades.

  "I am Issari Seran, Queen of Eteer," she told them, raising her chin. "Years ago, your queen visited our city upon the northern coast. Now, in this time of war that sweeps across all of Terra, I've come to speak with her again."

  The guards stared down at the ruins that sprawled below: toppled buildings, crumbled walls, and thousands of dead, both beasts of the Abyss and people of the city. Numb horror filled their eyes, ghosts Issari knew would never leave them, as they would never leave her. The men stepped aside. She entered the hall of Tur Kal.

  A mosaic of birds among reeds covered the floor, and bright murals of stars and suns lit the ceiling. Soldiers raced across the hall, servants bustled about, and messengers rushed in and out of rooms. Two wounded soldiers lay by a column, and priests prayed above them.

  In the center of the hubbub, an elderly woman stood in a white robe. Golden links hung around her neck, and she held a gnarled wooden staff capped with silver. Though her face was deeply lined, and her hair was snowy white, her eyes were sharp and shrewd. She listened as soldiers spoke, as messengers raced forth, and as priests prayed. Her concentration never faltered as she turned from one man to another.

  As Issari approached, the old woman's eyes flicked toward her. No hesitation filled them, no flicker of uncertainty.

  "Issari Seran," the Queen of Tur Kal said. "New Queen of Eteer and savior of Goshar." She stepped closer and examined Issari, those shrewd eyes narrowing. "By the gods, child. Last time I saw you, you were an innocent youth. You have the eyes of an old monarch now. Hard as bronze and cold as a killer's. Your father has those eyes."

  Issari shuddered. "Queen Rasha, my father has fallen to evil. The creatures who swarmed here were his creations. I've seen the evils rising from Eteer, and—"

  "Wait." Queen Rasha took Issari by the hand. "Not in this hall. Come with me to the balcony. Eat and drink and speak to me there." The queen's eyes flicked toward Tanin. "And bring your companion, for I see strength in him too, and loyalty to you."

  They stepped out from the hall and into a wide balcony. Porphyry tiles covered the floor, and flowers bloomed upon a stone railing. Stone tables stood here, set with dishes of fresh figs, dates, apricots, and grapes. The view faced west, and Issari could see marks of streets and houses leading to high walls. Beyond flowed a river, and in the hazy distance rolled the golden dunes of the desert.

  Issari spoke to Queen Rasha for a long time, eating little. She spoke of Requiem in the north, of the Abyss gates open, of Eteer and Goshar falling, of the refugees in the hills, of the dragons who were joining her cause. She spoke for what seemed like hours, spilling all these words like a wound spilling its poison. A weight seemed to lift from her; it had been so long since she'd spoken to anyone who could help, anyone older, wiser, stronger. For a blessed short time, it seemed as if the burden of leadership, this yoke she had carried for so long, was shared—if only for a morning.

  Only one thing she did not speak of. She dared not speak of Sharael, the Deceiver, the demon who had visited her in her tent. She had not spoken of him to Tanin; she would not to the queen of Tur Kal. That was a secret she would bury with her, a shame too painful to bring to her lips.

  Finally, when all her words were spoken, she ended her speech. "And so, my queen, we must fight united. All the thirteen city-states of Terra. The soldiers of Eteer and Goshar who walk with me. The dragons of Requiem. And the armies of all standing cities, your own included." She took a shuddering breath. "We must march to Eteer, we must slay my father, and we must close the gates to the Abyss."

  The queen rose to her feet. Her hand tightened around her staff. "My darling child, the south will rise. All of Terra will fight. I will find you a chamber in this palace. Sleep here. Rest here. Heal here. In the morning, you will fly again—an
d you will find more dragons."

  "I will stay among my people tonight," Issari said. "I will walk among them and spend the night in the hills. I won't live in a palace while they sleep under the stars."

  Night fell upon the land.

  In the city, men still buried their dead. In the hills, tents rose and campfires crackled like a field of orange stars. Queen Rasha sent forth wagons of grains, and the refugees cooked flat breads upon metal sheets, and they fished in the river and hunted deer upon the hills. For the first time since leaving Goshar, bellies were filled.

  Issari lay in her tent, in her bed, in her lover's arms. Tanin slept beside her, his chest rising and falling, his breath soft. She looked at him—his scruffy face, his shaggy brown hair, the lips she had once loved to kiss—and she saw him, the Deceiver. When Tanin mumbled in his sleep and tightened his arms around her, Issari winced and her belly twisted, and she remembered the demon making love to her, claiming her, and she remembered herself moaning with her passion, enjoying the creature's touch, loving it, craving it.

  Finally she could stand it no more. She could no longer look at Tanin or feel his warm body beside her. Everything about him reminded her of that night, of her terror and shame. Silently, she rose from her bed and, without waking Tanin, left her tent. The camp sprawled around her across the hills: tents, campfires, tethered cattle. Above spread a field of stars. She breathed the cool air, took one step away from her tent, then doubled over as pain stabbed through her belly.

  She gasped, arms wrapped around herself. Something inside her twitched, kicked, tugged. She grimaced, sweat flooded her, and she placed a hand upon her belly. She felt the thing inside kick, waking up, bulging, waiting to emerge.

  A nephil grows inside me.

  The creature within her—Sharael's son—gave another kick, and Issari could hear it now, hear the tiny, chattering sounds like rustling cockroaches.

  She stumbled down the hill.

  I have to kill it. I have to kill my child.

  Hugging herself, trying to ignore the movement inside her, she walked between the tents, crossing several hills until she reached the tent she sought. It was a simple tent, smaller than her own, its walls formed of animal hides. The creature inside her gave such a twist that she nearly fell. Jaw locked, she stepped inside.

  Teean was still awake, seated upon a wooden stool, drawing letters into a wet clay tablet. She turned around to face Issari, the candlelight upon her face. She was perhaps fifty years old, her long dark hair streaked with white. Her eyes were deep and green and wise, and bronze bracelets chinked around her arms. An amulet of Irishin, the god of healing, hung around her neck—a serpent coiling around a staff.

  "Teean," Issari whispered. "I'm ill."

  The midwife rose to her feet and rushed toward her. "Sweet Issari! Come. Lie down. Let me see."

  Issari stumbled forward and lay down upon Teean's bed. Twenty years ago, Teean—then a healer in Eteer—had delivered Issari from her mother's womb.

  And today she will remove my child from my womb, she thought. And I will kill it.

  Issari gasped and screamed as the pain drove through her, knives inside her belly.

  The midwife touched Issari's forehead; her fingers came back wet with Issari's sweat.

  "You're feverish," Teean said. "I'll prepare you a drink of healing herbs. I—"

  "Teean," Issari whispered and clutched the midwife's hand. "In Eteer, I heard unwed women whisper. They spoke of midwives helping them, pulling out early babes from their wombs, tiny things no larger than an apricot's pit. They . . . they said you helped them." She squeezed Teean's hand. "Please. Help me now. Help me remove the child inside me."

  Teean stared down, eyes wide and cheeks pale. For a long moment, the midwife said nothing, simply stared into Issari's eyes.

  She understands.

  Finally Teean nodded. "I still have my tools."

  The midwife opened a wooden box in the corner. Issari glimpsed tongs and metal tubes, and then the pain washed over her, and she shut her eyes and clenched her fists.

  While Teean worked, Issari screamed.

  Please, Taal, please, she prayed, clenching her fist so tightly the amulet hurt in her hand. Please . . .

  Something large and smooth and wet slithered out of her.

  A babe cried.

  It was a beautiful sound—soft, tender, begging for a mother's love.

  Issari took a shaky breath, her eyes still closed.

  My son needs me.

  "Oh blessed Irishin . . ." rose the midwife's voice. The clatter of falling bronze tools followed.

  Issari opened her eyes and she wept. He stared at her from the edge of the bed, eyes wet and wide. Her son.

  "My son," she whispered.

  The nephil blinked, his eyelids making soft, wet sounds. Blood and amniotic fluid covered his wretched, twisted, rotting body, and his tiny jaws opened, lined with teeth, and he cried again. Cried for her, for his mother. His hands wrapped around her leg, clinging, drawing blood with his tiny claws.

  "My son." She wept. "He needs me."

  Face pale, Teean lifted a knife. She thrust the blade into the nephil's back.

  "No!" Issari screamed, hoarse. "Teean, no!"

  Her tears fell and she leaped from the bed. Her son screamed. A horrible sound. A betrayed sound. He gazed at her, the blade protruding out from his chest, and his mouth opened and closed.

  Why? he seemed to ask her. Why did you abort me? Why do you slay me?

  "My son. . ." Weeping, she reached toward him.

  But the boy turned and leaped away. The little nephil, no larger than a newborn kitten, scuttled across the floor, leaving a wet trail, and fled the tent.

  Bleeding and dizzy, Issari stumbled off the bed, shoved Teean aside, and raced outside.

  "I'm sorry!" she cried out, for now that she had seen her son, she pitied him. She loved him.

  And he was gone.

  She searched the hills for hours, searched every tent, but she could not find him, and finally she stumbled out of the camp, and she fell to her knees in the wilderness. She lowered her head, and her body shook, and her tears fell.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  She placed her hand upon her belly, and she felt empty. She had slain demons, had saved Vir Requis, had led an exodus from ruin to new life, but for the first time she had created life—even if it was a twisted, miserable life—and she had tried to extinguish that precious life, to kill her own son.

  She lowered her head, and despair washed over her.

  I can't do this, she thought. I can't keep going. I don't know how to lead all these people, how to find them a new home, how to stop my father, how to seal the Abyss, how to become a leader, a savior, a mother, how to heal the pain inside me. It's too much, and I'm too small, too weak.

  She looked up at the sky, blinked her tears away, and saw them far above—the Draco stars, the dragon of the sky.

  "Please, stars of Requiem. If you can hear me, and if your light truly blesses me, help me. I'm frightened." Her voice shook. "Help me."

  The stars shone, distant and cold, unreachable as always. Issari stared, feeling as if they too had left her like her son. Both her belly and soul were hollow.

  Light flashed above.

  A comet streaked across the sky.

  Issari gasped and rose to her feet.

  The comet fell, blazed with blue fire, then thinned into a pale white line. It flashed down toward her, and a small stone, no larger than an egg, slammed down at her feet. It lay there, glowing white, a shard of star.

  Her right hand closed around Taal's amulet. She reached down and, with her left hand, lifted the comet.

  She gasped. It blazed against her skin, and she tried to drop it but could not. The light shone from her hand, silvery starlight, as the shard melted and reformed in her palm, embedding into her.

  The light faded to a soft glow. Issari raised her left hand and stared at her palm. The star pulsed there, a twin to the a
mulet in her right hand.

  She looked up at the sky.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  She had been blessed by Taal, and now by the Draco stars. One hand connected her to the silver god, to Eteer, to her coastal home, and the other would forever bind her to Requiem. Forever would she be torn between two worlds, forever blessed.

  She was no longer frightened. She no longer felt alone.

  She returned to her tent. Tanin still slept, and Issari crept back into her bed, and she pulled his arm across her again, and she too slept.

  JEID

  "Bryn!" he shouted as the tunnel caved in below him. "Bryn!"

  He had caught a last look at her eyes, a last flicker of her fire, and then the walls had caved in, burying her. Smoke blasted out. The mountain shifted and shook. Boulders tumbled and the slopes sank down, rearranging themselves, sealing most of the sphinxes in a tomb of stone—along with Bryn.

  A handful of sphinxes still flew above the mountain. Jeid torched one and Dorvin took down another. A swarm of dragons flew toward the last few sphinxes, blasted their fire, and the creatures fell.

  The battle was over.

  Jeid landed on the mountaintop and stared around him. Corpses lay upon the slopes, shattered, ashen, their lights gone. A hundred Vir Requis had entered the mountain; fifty now stood around him.

  Fifty beings alone in the world, our kingdom stolen, our friends and family fallen. Jeid lowered his head, smoke rising from his nostrils. They had defeated one group of sphinxes, but hundreds still lived in Requiem.

  "Too many gone," he whispered. "Too many—"

  "Yeah!" Dorvin shouted, interrupting him. The silver dragon flew above, blasting out fire. "Yeah, you see, sphinxes? You see, demons? That's what happens when you attack Requiem. That's what—"

  "Dorvin!" Jeid reached up, caught the silver dragon's tail between his jaws, and yanked him down. "Silence."

  Dorvin struggled at first, opened his mouth to say more, then looked around him. He seemed to notice the dead for the first time, then landed and lowered his scaly head. He said no more.

  Jeid was about to speak to the crowd, to comfort the grieving, to offer prayer and hope, when dragonfire crackled in the distant sky.