They all rose from below, dragon after dragon, ascending into the sky. They flew behind her. Freed slaves. Proud warriors. A nation.
"Not bad, Mel." Lucem flew up to her side, the sunlight bright against his red scales. "Could have used a few puns, maybe a couple dirty limericks, but overall not a bad speech."
Meliora rolled her eyes. "You and your dirty limericks."
The red dragon grinned. "Want to hear a few new ones?"
"No!" She spurted fire his way.
They flew onward, and behind them the children of Requiem followed, covering the sky.
VALE
As the nation of Requiem flew above, Vale and Elory stood below on the hill, both in human forms.
"I wish I could take her with us," Vale said.
Elory held his hand. "I do too. But the journey is too long, too perilous."
"She belongs in Requiem." Vale had to force the words out of his tight throat.
"Maybe she already is in Requiem," Elory whispered, looking up at the sky.
But Vale did not look up. He looked down at the ground, down at her. At Tash.
She lay there, wrapped in his cloak, her face so pale, so fair. Vale knelt and stroked her long brown hair.
"I love you, Tash," he whispered. "I know that I'll see you again someday."
Elory knelt at his side, and she placed her hand on Tash's. "And I love you too, Tash," she whispered. "Goodbye, sweet friend."
You saved my life, Tash, Vale thought, stroking her cold cheek. You gave your life for mine. And . . . I never had a chance to love you enough. Our last few days, we fought, we hated, we hurt each other. But know that I forgive you, that I love you. Know that for all eternity, Requiem will know your name, know of your sacrifice.
Finally Vale looked up at the sky.
You gave me new life, Issari, our holy priestess. You told me that a battle awaits me. Yet I would have lost my battle if not for Tash. Why do I linger on, hurt, so many scars upon me, and she lies here, so fair, so cold, no gift of life given to her?
Yet the Priestess in White was silent. Perhaps Vale had no power to summon her the way his father could. He was no priest, no wise man like Jaren. Perhaps Issari had never heard his prayers, had never seen his pain. Vale did not know. He did not know why he kept living as so many died—as thousands of Vir Requis remained here, buried in Saraph.
Maybe I've not yet faced my battle. It hurts. It hurts to go on. To live without you, Tash. I will fight on, but I don't know if I can bear this pain.
He shifted into a dragon, and he dug a grave, and he gently placed Tash inside. She was far from Requiem here, but Tofet was too far to see too. The land was burnt now, but in time grass would grow here, trees would rustle, and flowers would bloom again. The river would flow through life, and birds would sing. This place would be beautiful come next spring, a good place for her to rest.
As he placed dirt onto the grave, Vale swore that if he survived the journey, and if Requiem was rebuilt from ruin, he would return for her bones, and he would place them in a coffin carved from Requiem birch, bring them to rest in the land of her forebears, and someday he would rest at her side.
"Sleep well for now, sweet Tash," he whispered to the grave.
Still in human form, Elory leaned against his scaly neck, and she patted his long snout.
"I know that you hurt, Vale. I know that it hurts more than you can bear. But I'm with you." She kissed his cheek, her lips soft against his blue scales. "And so is Father, and so is Meliora, and so are all in Requiem. We all love you, prince of dragons."
She shifted too, and they rose into the sky together, a blue dragon and a lavender one. They flew with their people, taking some pain with them, leaving some pain behind, heading onward to hope and light and a dream of home.
ISHTAFEL
He lay in the bloody field, convulsing, screaming.
He rattled in their cart, crying out, begging them to kill him.
He thrashed in his bed as they placed ointments upon him, roaring that he'd kill them all, vowing to kill himself too.
Meliora's halo had burned him, leaving a scar across his face. Now dragonfire—roaring, all-consuming—had washed across him.
He screamed.
He wept.
He thrashed in pain.
He lay in his palace, Ishtafel thought. The walls spun around him. He fainted. He woke, fresh bandages across him. He stumbled out from his bed, seeking a blade, seeking a rope, seeking a way to end his life, but he ended up falling to the floor and trembling.
He slept. He dreamed.
In his fever, he was back in Requiem, flying through hosts of dragons, traveling through the tunnels, slaying the demons one by one in the darkness, watching his soldiers die.
"They fled," he whispered, tasting blood. "The weredragons fled me."
He stumbled through the halls of his dark palace, dripping, his bandages trailing behind him. He tore them off one by one, leaving a wake of puss and ichor. No more servants filled the palace; all had fled. Those seraphim who still wandered these halls saw him, gasped, and fled too. One woman fainted.
"A mirror!" he shouted. "A mirror!"
Yet they would bring him none. He limped onto a balcony into the searing sunlight, and he raised his arms before him, and he laughed. Dripping, melting arms, the skin gone. When he touched his face he found nothing, and he screamed.
He stared into the northern distance. They had flown there. They were gone.
"Twice you burned me, dragons," he spoke into the distance. "But I still live. I am a god of fire. You cannot kill me. You only strip the flesh away, leaving my soul stronger, tempering me like iron in a forge."
Iron.
Ishtafel sneered.
"Bring me iron and gold!" he shouted.
He summoned his chariot, and he rode in fire, a thing of flames, and his steeds took him to the city smelters. There he entered the darkness, and he stood before roaring fires that melted metal in a cauldron, and he laughed.
"Forge, men! Forge and hammer and temper."
The cauldrons boiled and hammers swung, and Ishtafel laughed.
On a dark night, he stepped out from the pit, and he walked through the city, clanking, thudding. All who saw him fled. Down cobbled roads he marched, between obelisks and colossal statues, making his way to his ziggurat.
"A mirror!" he shouted as he stepped into the palace.
Finally two soldiers approached, bearing a tall bronze mirror, and knelt, shivering. Ishtafel stared at his reflection.
He wore new skin—skin of metal. A mask covered his face, drilled into him, shaped as the face he had once worn, the face now gone. Gilt covered the iron. More metal covered his limbs and torso, sealing him inside. His wings spread out, the feathers burnt away—wings of raw leather, tipped with black claws. They almost looked like dragon wings. His halo still blazed above his head, brighter than ever.
"Now I am truly a god," he whispered.
He beat his wings. He soared off the balcony. The ziggurat's platinum crest streamed behind him, the place where he had nailed up the weredragon prince—the prince he would still catch and break.
"My army of light failed," he whispered, beating his naked wings. "The dark seraphim failed. It's time to summon . . . them."
He soared until he reached the Eye of Saraph, the engraved eye upon the ziggurat's triangular crest, the great watcher of the empire. It stared from within a sunburst, larger than him, ever guarding his domain.
"Hear me, Eye of Saraph!" Ishtafel cried, hovering before the engraving, his wings spread wide. "For long you watched over us, and now I call you to cast forth your light. Raise the beam! Shine your column to call your children home."
Slowly, the great stone eye began to open.
At first only a slit shone with terrible light, nearly blinding Ishtafel. Then the eye opened wider, exposing its innards, heat and light more terrible than the cauldrons of molten metal that had forged his new skin. A beam of searing, golden lig
ht slammed into Ishtafel, bounced off his armor, and blasted skyward.
Above, the storm clouds gathered. Clouds rarely gathered in the heart of Saraph, this dry southern land, but now a maelstrom brewed, the color of bruises. Lightning flashed. Thunder tore across the land. And still the light flared, passing from the eye, through Ishtafel, up into the sky, shattering the heavens.
A second great eye—this one dark and swirling—opened above.
"Descend, children!" Ishtafel cried, laughing, arms and wings spread wide. "Join us in this world, ones of Edinnu. Fall, fall from the heavens, fall and rise in new glory!"
Above him, they shrieked, his old pets, barely visible in the clouds, eyes like stars, collapsing, rising again, blaring out with terrible hatred. Their wings darkened the sky.
"Fall and slay dragons!" he shouted.
From the heavens they fell, covering the land, coating temples and palaces like tar, shrieking out in rage and hatred, a song for the blood of dragons.
TIL
They travelled through the snowy forest, shivering even in their thick cloaks, moving fast, daring not stop.
We must reach the southern coast, Til thought as she trudged onward. We must live. We must find the sea.
"I'm cold." Walking at her side, Bim hugged himself. His teeth chattered. "Can we build a fire?"
Til shook her head. "No fires. Not yet. Not until we're sure we've lost them."
She looked around her, seeking any sign of pursuit. The trees rose all around—maples, oaks, and many birches. Ice encased the branches, topped with snow. Fallen logs, branches, and roots lay everywhere, twisting like a city, white and brown. When Til looked up, she saw a blue sky between frosted branches.
No seraphim. No Overlord.
Yet the memory wouldn't leave her. Again and again, she saw it before her eyes. The Overlord, a god of light, his halo like the sun, his armor golden, a figure of splendor and holiness. Again and again, she saw the deity's lance driving into the black dragon, slaying her father, turning him from a dragon into a man again—a man skewered upon the shaft. Even in the cold, Til suddenly felt hot, as if the chariots of fire flew around her again.
She shook her head, banishing that memory, yet her father's words still echoed in her mind.
Take him to the coast. Find others.
"Til, can I remove my armor?" Bim said. "The metal is too cold. Can we build a fire soon?"
She looked at him, and pity filled her. The boy was too thin, too pale, his breath frosting. A decade ago, when Til had been that age, things had been better, she thought. A thousand Vir Requis had still lived in the ruins of Requiem, eking out a life in tunnels, caves, and forest camps. Yet now food was scarcer, shelter harder to find, and they were always moving, never spending two nights in the same place. Always seeking others, finding none. The past five years, since the tragic uprising against the Overlord, had thinned their family down to raw bones, leaving haunted eyes in gaunt faces, stiff fingers that never strayed far from the hilt, haggard legs that knew to always trudge on, always keep moving, keep seeking.
"Another league," Til said. "And we'll build a fire, and we'll tell old stories."
They moved on through the forest, shivering in their cloaks. Soon Til saw prints in the sand, raised her eyes, and descried the rabbit ahead between the birches. Silently, she nocked an arrow in her bow, and she pierced the rabbit with her first shot. They saw no other animals; this paltry meal would have to do.
"There will be more food on the southern coast," Til said to her brother. "It's warm there, Bim, and no snow falls, not even in winter. There are plenty of deer on the plains, and the rivers aren't frozen and many fish fill them. All other Vir Requis survivors will have traveled there."
Bim eyed the scrawny rabbit in Til's hands. "If there are others."
"There are," Til promised. "We have to believe."
Because what else is left to us? she thought. If not for this hint of hope, we might as well doff our cloaks, lie down in the snow, and let the cold seize us. We have to believe there are others. We have to keep moving.
They kept walking until they found a valley, the canopy a thick latticework above, perhaps thick enough to disperse the smoke of a fire. It was colder here in the shade, and Til could not stop shivering, but she set camp near a fallen log. She and her brother spent a few moments collecting firewood and arranging a small campfire. Ice coated the branches; no tinderbox or kindling would ignite them, Til knew. She glanced around, stood silently, and listened. She heard nothing. No seraphim. No sounds of pursuit.
Finally she nodded, inhaled deeply, and summoned her magic.
She rarely became a dragon anymore. Dragons were large and loud. Flying above, they puffed out smoke, visible for miles. Even walking through the forest, their scales clattered, their large bodies rustled the trees, and the smoke from their nostrils left a trail. Yet now she allowed the orange scales to flow across her, allowed fire to fill her jaws. She spent a few moments puffing out weak flames, melting the ice around the branches, until finally the campfire burned. Then she became human again.
They sat on the fallen log by the fire, warming their fingers, and cooked the rabbit. There was barely any meat on the bones. Even the wildlife of Requiem was gaunt, struggling to survive.
"On the southern coast, the meat is rich and fatty," Til said, gnawing on a bone. "There are plump bison and fish so large they can feed a family for a week."
Bim snapped a rabbit bone in two and sucked on it. "There will be seraphim there too."
"Not as many." Til waved her hands over the campfire, trying to disperse the smoke, to scatter a single plume that could rise and alert others to their presence. "The Overlord lives here in the north, and most of the battles were fought here. The south has always been the backwater of Requiem, even in the glory days before the seraphim arrived. A quiet place. A few others survive there; I'm sure of it. Warmth. Food. Safety."
"But not for Father." Bim lowered his head. "He won't ever see the south."
Til tossed her rabbit bone into the fire. She moved closer and sat beside Bim on the fallen log, wrapped her arm around him, and rested her cheek on the top of his head. She stroked his hair.
"Have you heard the tales of Kyrie Eleison?" she asked him.
Bim nodded. "You told them a million times."
"Then I'll tell them a million and one times. He's our ancestor; we're directly descended of his lineage. When he was a boy, he was lost here in this wilderness. He thought he was the last Vir Requis, the only survivor of the griffins who had crushed Requiem. Three thousand years ago, he traveled through these very forests, seeking others. His family dead. His belly empty. The enemy flying everywhere."
Bim sighed. "Your story isn't making me feel better."
"But Kyrie found others." Til squeezed her brother against her. "He found a new family, new hope. In the darkness, he lit a new light, and Requiem rose again. Now we are in darkness. Now we are alone. Now we struggle to find new life, new hope. And I believe, Bim, that Requiem will rise again. That King's Column will be cleansed and rededicated, that many other columns will rise around it, that dragons will fly in the open again. Father believed too. That's why he wanted us to go south. To seek others."
Bim lowered his head. "But those are just old stories. What if there are no others? What if . . . what if we're the last?"
"There are others." Til took his head in her hands, turned it toward her, and stared into his eyes. "Countless Vir Requis live across the southern sea, in the heartland of Saraph, though they are chained and collared and cannot become dragons. But they live too, and they pray. They pray to rebuild Requiem. Our nation still lives, all over the world, and our prayers still rise to the stars. We grieve. We hurt. We shiver in the cold. But we do not give up, Bim. Not so long as our legs can walk and our hearts can beat."
Bim frowned. "I hear something."
At first Til heard nothing. She stiffened, cocked her head, listening . . . but heard only the wind creaking
the trees, the crackling fire, and—
There. She heard it.
The shuffling of snow. Padding feet. A snort and heavy breathing. The sounds came from all sides, and yet no light of halos or chariots filled the forest. The sun was dimming, shadows falling. The sniffing rose louder.
Wolves? she thought, reaching for her bow.
Bim stiffened at her side, drawing an arrow. Slowly, the siblings rose to their feet, weapons raised, staring from side to side.
From the shadowy forest they emerged, and Til cringed.
"Serpopards," she said.
The creatures were vaguely feline, but larger than any cat Til had ever seen, larger even than horses. Their fur was black and bristly, their paws tipped with claws. Their necks coiled upward, longer than Til was tall, tipped with the heads of lionesses. The creatures growled, baring their fangs, and slinked forward from all sides. Til counted five of them, forming a ring around the camp.
"Seraph pets," Bim said, moving his arrow from side to side.
Til had seen such creatures before from a distance. Back during the uprising, the seraphim would lead them through the forest on leashes, sniffing out the trails of Vir Requis survivors. These ones wore no leashes, though collars still encircled their necks, and their nostrils flared. Their masters could not be far behind.
Til did not hesitate any longer.
She fired her arrow.
Before it could even meet its target, the serpopards pounced.
Bim's arrow fired too with a twang. Both arrows slammed into the creatures, digging through the furred flesh, only enraging the beasts. Long necks stretched out, and jaws opened wide to bite.
One creature slammed into Til, and she fell, shouting. The lioness head snapped at her, lashing fangs against her patches of rusted armor. At her side, Bim fell too, raising his arms before his head, trying to ward off another serpopard.
Til growled, writhed madly, and kicked hard. She managed to knock the creature off her, tossing it into the campfire. The flames raged and showered sparks.
Pillars of Dragonfire Page 4