Requiem's Prayer (Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  He stared, eyes narrowed, then took flight.

  Two dragons were flying through the night, heading toward the mountain. A distant voice carried on the wind.

  "Grizzly! Grizzly!"

  Jeid flew toward them, laughing, relief sweeping across him.

  "Laira!" he cried out, and his eyes stung. "Maev!"

  The two dragons, gold and green, flew toward him, laughing and crying. They slammed into him in the sky, wings beating madly, as they laughed and struggled to embrace in dragon forms.

  "Land first!" Jeid said, grinning like a boy. "Oh, thank the stars."

  They landed on the foothills, shifted into human form, and the two women crashed into his arms. He squeezed them both against him, tears in his eyes, and then a cry rose above, and Dorvin landed and shifted and joined the embrace. They stood together, talking all at once, telling stories of sphinxes, druids, fear, and triumph.

  "I was so worried, Maev," Jeid finally said, holding his daughter at arm's length. "If I had lost you, the sky might as well have fallen. I love you, my daughter."

  The wrestler stared at him, and her face hardened—chin raised, eyes narrowed, bottom lip thrust out—and she crossed her tattooed arms, the gruff warrior with no emotion in her heart. But as Jeid stared at her, the walls cracked, and her eyes dampened, and she pulled him back into an embrace.

  "I love you," his daughter whispered. "I love so much, Papa. I was so scared."

  Still holding her, Jeid reached out and clasped Laira's hand. Staring over Maev's shoulder, he looked at his wife. They gazed at each other silently. Her eyes were huge, green pools, and her lips—those slanted lips in her crooked jaw—rose in a small, knowing smile. He saw her love for him, and her silence spoke more than any words could.

  You are my stars, Laira, he thought. You are my sky. You are the light that guides my flight.

  He did not need to speak those words; she knew and she felt the same, and Jeid swore to never part from her again.

  Dawn rose around them, a dawn of some hope, some life. The other Vir Requis joined them, and they flew—perhaps the last dragons in the world—far from the mountains and across the plains. They hunted bison from a roaming herd, and they drank from a river, and they built campfires and tended to their wounds. They huddled together in the wilderness, ragged and famished and hurt, but ready to heal, ready to fight.

  "We slew many sphinxes," Jeid said at length as the others gathered around him. "With Bryn's sacrifice, Requiem defeated the beasts who followed us north. But many of the Widejaws, perhaps hundreds, might still be living in Requiem. We survivors, only fifty Vir Requis, might be all that remains of our nation. Now the time has come to decide our path. Do we flee into the distance to find a new home? Or do we fly back to Requiem and fight?"

  "Fight!" Dorvin leaped up and swung a bison rib like a sword. "I'm done hiding. We fly to war. Fifty dragons?" He blew out breath, fluttering his lips. "More than enough. We'll slay the lot of them."

  Laira rose to her feet too. The young woman, clad in a shaggy fur cloak, stood no taller than Dorvin's shoulders, but she spoke with the authority of a great queen.

  "We return to Requiem," Laira said. "Not with dragonfire and claws, but with a gift of meat . . . and a gift of herbs." She reached into her cloak and pulled out a rolled-up ball of vines. "Tillvine. Dragonfire won't save Requiem. These leaves will."

  TANIN

  When dawn rose, he found her changed.

  Tanin woke with her in his arms, but she was a different Issari, more fragile, stronger, paler, colder, warmer. Hurt.

  "Issari?" he whispered.

  She rose from the bed and stood before him, only a sheet draped across her body. Two lights gleamed upon her hands—her amulet of the south and a new light, brighter, softer, the glow of a star. She had been transfigured, grown mightier overnight, yet her eyes seemed haunted, filled with more pain than he'd ever seen in them. She placed a hand upon her belly and whispered softly, but he could not hear the words.

  "Issari, what's wrong?" He rose and stood before her, then gasped to see blood on her sheet. It dripped between her legs.

  "We must find more dragons," she whispered.

  He touched her cheek. Her skin was burning hot. "Issari! What happened? Your hand . . ."

  "Please." She looked away. "Never ask me. Never speak to me of what happened this night. Just . . . be with me."

  He pulled her into his arms. "Always. No matter what happened or will happen. No matter how much pain we suffered or will suffer." He held her close and kissed her feverish forehead. "I swear to you. We might still bleed, and we might face wars and horrors, but no matter what the world tosses our way, I'm here with you. I would fight all the demons of the Abyss for you."

  She raised her chin. "Then fly with me. Fly now. Fly for our stars—for dragons."

  They flew.

  They flew over fields and deserts, over mountains and rivers, from city to city. They crossed the vast southern land of Terra, a realm of ancient civilizations, of thirteen city-states crumbling under the nephilim. A city on a mountain, towering and pale. A city in a vale, lush and green. A city upon the water, rivers forming its streets, thick with boats. A desert city of sandstone and caves, its towers tall, its dungeons deep. A city carved into a canyon, its hundred gateways leading to a hundred labyrinths. Cities of soldiers, cities of poets and singers, cities of learning, cities of might. And wherever they flew, they found them—more dragons.

  "I raise this nation for you, my stars," Issari would say in the night, lifting her eyes to the Draco constellation.

  "For Requiem," Tanin would always add. For his home. For his fallen sister. For a dream of peace.

  A thousand dragons of every color flew behind them, covering the sky, a dragon nation risen from the south, a nation of starlight.

  As the full moon shone, the thousand mustered in a vale, and they lit many fires, and Tanin and Issari looked north at the distant darkness.

  He held her hand. "It's time to go home. It's time to go to Requiem."

  She looked at him, her eyes reflecting the firelight. "Not yet. Not before I return to my other home . . . to Eteer. And to my father."

  LAIRA

  They trudged through the snowy forest, fifty men and women wrapped in fur, seeking the lost halls of Requiem.

  Laira looked around her at her fellow Vir Requis, and she barely recognized them. Their heads were all clean-shaven, even the women's, and tribal paints covered their scalps and faces. They all carried sharpened wooden sticks and shields of leather stretched across wooden frames. If not for her constant cursing, Laira would never have recognized Maev; green and black stripes covered the wrestler's bald head and hard face. If not for his wide, lumbering form, Laira doubted she'd even recognize her husband; for the first time in many years, Jeid wore no beard, and his long shaggy hair was also gone. Red and white paint covered him, and without his wild mane, he seemed smaller to Laira, thinner, more fragile. When she looked across the rest of their group, she saw no Vir Requis; she saw a new tribe.

  Laira caressed her own shaved head. Where once black hair had grown now coiled lines of black and green paint.

  "Do you think it'll work?" she asked Dorvin.

  The young man walked at her side, bare-chested even in the cold. He too had shaved his head, and his scalp, torso, and face sported coiling lines in silver and black. He twisted his lips and spat. "It better work. I'm bloody freezing."

  "Where's your cloak?" Laira asked. She tightened her own fur pelt; snow clung to it.

  Dorvin shivered and stuck his hands under his armpits. "I spent all morning painting my chest. I'm not going to hide the dragon I painted. It's a masterpiece."

  Laira glanced at his chest. A melting, dripping figure seemed to have been painted onto him, surrounded by spirals and lightning bolts. "It looks more like a worm."

  "It's a dragon." He growled and thumped his chest. "A vicious, fire-breathing, man-eating, killer dra—" He glanced down at his chest
and bit his lip. "Stars damn it. It melted. Well, maybe it's a worm." He shook his fist. "Worms are vicious too, you know."

  Maev approached them and slapped the back of Dorvin's head. "It was a damn stupid idea to paint a dragon anyway. We don't want the enemy thinking about dragons today. To them we must be the Sharpspear tribe, come to pay tribute." Maev passed her hand over her bald head and sighed. "Though I still don't know why we had to shave our damn heads."

  "The illusion must be complete," said Laira. "If they recognize even one of us, it's over." She shuddered. "Hundreds of Widejaws might still live in Requiem, more than enough to slay us all. They must suspect nothing. No more talk of dragons. No more talk of disguises. Become Sharpspears."

  They walked on through the snow, the last survivors of Requi— No. Laira shook her head wildly. The last Sharpspears, she reminded herself. A few children. Three mothers holding babies. A few haggard men and women, their wounds still bandaged. All bald. All painted. Clad in furs, holding spears, moving onward through the forest, seeking the halls of Requiem.

  In the afternoon, Laira finally saw it in the distance, rising from the forest like a beacon—King's Column. Her eyes dampened, and she had to pause from walking. The others gathered around her and stared silently. The pillar was still marks away, so tall it called her even from the horizon, a beam of light rising toward the sky. Even in the day, it seemed to shine with starlight.

  "The heart of Requiem," Laira whispered. "The beacon of a nation."

  She raised her chin and kept walking, her steps faster now. The others walked silently around her, staring ahead at the column, at their home that had been stolen, the home they must reclaim.

  Laira hefted her pack across her back. Within she held the hope of Requiem. She raised her eyes and stared at the sky. The sun shone behind clouds. She could not see the stars, but she prayed to them silently.

  Please, stars of Requiem, if you shine behind sunlight and clouds, and if you can hear me, grant me courage today. Grant me the wisdom and strength I need.

  She heard no reply, felt no warmth in her heart, only fear in her belly. She tightened her lips and walked on. Perhaps this day she would have to rely on herself alone, on her own strength, not the strength of starlight. Her strength had brought her this far, had carried her through slavery and war; she would need to draw a little bit more.

  The sun was low in the sky when, weary and covered with frost, the travelers reached the halls of Requiem.

  King's Column rose before them among the trees, and several other columns rose around it, twins to the original pillar. Most of the birches here had burned in the battle; they rose charred and black and barren. The sound of crude songs, curses, and laughter rose from the hall. Smoke plumed skyward from campfires, and the smell of cooking meat—stars, it might be human meat—invaded Laira's nostrils.

  "Halt!"

  The voice rose from between the burnt trees. A sphinx padded toward them through the snow. Its lion body was large as a dragon's, and its matted wings lay pressed against its flanks. The creature's human face stared down at them, ballooned to thrice the normal size. The jaws opened from ear to ear, revealing rows of sharpened teeth.

  Laira raised two open, emptied hands. "Greetings, sphinx of the Widejaw tribe! I am Kelafi of the Sharpspear tribe. Tales of your glory have traveled across the land. We've come to pay tribute to your might, Widejaw, and we bring gifts."

  Wings thudded and three more sphinxes dived down, crashed through the forest canopy, and landed in the snow. Large as dragons, the fetid creatures stared at the Sharpspears with narrowed eyes. Laira's heart thrashed. She glanced at her sides. The other Vir Requis—no, only Sharpspears now!—stared back with hard, determined eyes, but Laira saw their nervousness. Jeid's hand strayed near the spear strapped to his back. Dorvin was clenching his fists, and Maev bared her teeth. But none made a move to attack nor shift into dragons. Laira herself struggled to curb the urge to shift, to blow fire, to attack.

  We cannot win here with might, she thought. There are too many enemies. We will win this battle not with dragonfire but with wisdom.

  At her side, Jeid took a step closer. He opened his pack, revealing salted deer flanks. The burly man, unrecognizable without his shaggy beard and hair, spoke in his deep voice. "We bring tribute! Salted deer. Mammoth flanks. Wild boar. The meat is fresh from today, fatty and rich. Our gift to the new masters of Requiem." Jeid's painted face twisted in a show of disgust. "The cruel dragons hunted our tribe down to only fifty souls. We welcome our Widejaw masters!"

  The other Vir Requis opened their own packs, revealing their gifts. Laira's pack contained fresh boar flanks, the meat marbled and packed with salt and wild herbs.

  And with a special spice, she thought. Her heart hammered. With a special ingredient these men must eat.

  The sphinxes ahead released their demonic magic, returning to human form. Even as men they were beastly. Each Widejaw stood as tall and wide as Jeid. Ring mail covered their bodies, and swords and spears hung across their backs. Their heads were bald and tattooed, their earlobes stretched with rings, their eyebrows pierced with many pins, but worst of all were their cheeks—slashed open from mouth to ear, revealing all their teeth. More Widejaws approached, and soon dozens stood among the burnt birches, staring at the strangers who had come to pay tribute.

  "What are you louts doing over there?" rose a deep cry. "You useless pieces of shite! Who's there? Bring 'em over."

  Laira glanced over at Jeid. He stared back, eyes dark.

  We will do this, she thought, staring into his eyes, trying to transmit her thoughts into his mind.

  He gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. We will do this.

  The Widejaw soldiers nodded and moved aside, clearing a path between them.

  "Go," said the Widejaw who had first spoken to them. "Bring your meat to our king. Kneel before him. Worship him. And we will let you serve us." His eyes flicked toward Laira and lust filled them. "We will take all your gifts."

  Suppressing a shudder, Laira walked through the snow between the charred trees and leering Widejaws. For the first time in many days, she stepped into the hall of Requiem.

  Once this had been a place of glory and beauty. A dozen columns had risen here, carved of purest marble, white and glittering in both sunlight and starlight. Once marble tiles had spread across the forest floor, polished and reflecting the sky. Once many birches had rustled beyond the columns, and the proud Oak Throne of Requiem had risen with its back to the mountains. The Vir Requis had never completed their palace—they had not yet installed a roof nor living chambers—but what they had built had shone with light and nobility.

  The place was now a hive of ruin.

  Several of the columns had fallen and lay smashed between the birches and across the tiled floor. The Widejaws had draped bloody fur pelts across one toppled column to dry. One Widejaw stood by another fallen column, pissing against it. Most of the marble tiles were cracked and shattered. Two Widejaws stood over a pit dug right into the palace floor, gutting a boar. Horses stood tethered to the trees, and dogs roamed across the hall, relieving themselves upon the floor without any master to stop them. Campfires burned upon some tiles, staining the marble with soot; human limbs roasted over the flames. The hall of starlight had become a hall of blood and filth.

  "Stars damn it—" Dorvin began, but Laira hushed him with a glare. The young man glowered, clenched and unclenched his fists, and bit down on his words.

  The Oak Throne of Requiem still rose in the hall, its back to the mountains, but a new man now sat here. He was massively built, large as a wild boar, even larger than Jeid. Tattoos coiled across his head, and cruelty shone in his eyes. His mouth opened wide, stretching open from ear to ear, revealing sharp teeth.

  Slyn, Laira knew. Ruler of the Widejaw tribe. She had met him only briefly—the day he had conquered this hall. She prayed that with her bald head and painted face, he would not recognize her.

  She glanced at her companion
s, and she saw the hatred in their eyes. Maev was grinding her teeth, and Dorvin looked ready to race forward and attack. Behind them, the other Vir Requis exchanged dark looks. Only Jeid seemed calm, staring forward with expressionless eyes.

  Laira took a step closer to the throne, her feet padding over snow and blood.

  "Slyn of Widejaw!" she called out. "I am Kelafi, chieftain of the Sharpspear tribe. I've brought my tribe here to pay tribute to Widejaw, and to bring you gifts." She knelt. "I kneel before you, Slyn, chieftain of Widejaw."

  She knew that if Jeid, Maev, or Dorvin—tall and proud warriors—had claimed to be chieftains, they'd be slaughtered as a threat. But Laira was small and slim, no more threatening than an ant. Perhaps they would allow her to bend the knee.

  But Slyn rose to his feet and drew his sword. His face twisted with rage, and his cheeks reddened. Laira's heart pounded. He knows! she thought. He recognizes me! He remembers my crooked mouth, even with my face all painted!

  Slyn took a step closer and snarled. "Chieftain of Widejaw?" He spat on her. "I am no mere chieftain. I am King of Requiem!"

  Across the hall, his fellow Widejaws cheered. Men raised bloody hands in triumph. One Widejaw approached King's Column—the only pillar not scratched or cracked—and began to hump the marble.

  Dorvin growled and reached for his spear. Jeid had to grab his arm to hold him back.

  Her innards swirling with rage, Laira nodded. She bowed her head to Slyn. "King of Requiem! Defeater of dragons!" She upended her pack, spilling the boar flanks onto the floor. "We of Sharpspear suffered under the dragons' yoke. I praise you! I bring you these gifts of gratitude, of tribute. Allow my humble tribe to serve you, oh great king."

  Across the hall, the Widejaws drew nearer and sniffed.

  "That's good meat," said one man, his face pierced with a hundred bronze rings. "Shame it ain't human, but boar'll fill the belly too." His nostrils flared. "Seasoned and fatty and still leaking blood. Just how I like it."