Pillars of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  They would rip him open, Ishtafel knew. They would tear out his entrails and feed them to him. His mother had told him this, and his mother never lied. Whatever punishment she vowed, she carried out.

  "I have to stay," the boy whispered to himself, tasting his blood. "I have to stay here. Mother will protect me from the dragons. I have to be good."

  He limped toward the window, and he stared north. There, across the city, across deserts and seas, it lay—the land of dragons. The creatures who would hurt him, from whom only his mother could protect him.

  "But I will grow," the boy whispered. "I will grow stronger every day, until I can kill them all. Kill everyone who hurts me. Kill the dragons . . . and kill you, Mother."

  His eyes snapped open.

  He breathed out shakily.

  Just a dream. Just a memory.

  Once more Ishtafel was an adult, a great king, five hundred years old. His mother was dead—he had killed her himself. The boy was dead too. A man, a king, a god now lay under the sky.

  Ishtafel rose from his blankets, his new metal skin creaking. He stretched out his dry wings, looked around him, and beheld a field of bones and blood.

  The city of Keleshan, once home to a great garrison of seraphim, lay in ruins before him. The dragons had come here. The dragons had left death. The walls of the city had fallen, and the great egg-shaped fortress on its crest had hatched. The city's inhabitants were gone—the seraphim dead or fled, the slaves escaped.

  But new denizens had come here.

  The harpies swarmed across the city. Ishtafel stood on the mountainside, watching them. They bustled across the fields like vultures, gnawing on the corpses of seraphim, ripping off skin, dragging ribcages through the dirt, guzzling down innards. Thousands of other harpies scuttled across the walls, roofs, and streets of the city, seeking both the living and dead, ripping into the flesh. Blood stained the harpies' withered faces, and bits of flesh clung to their talons.

  Ishtafel spread his burnt wings, the feathers lost to the dragonfire. On the mountaintop, where the stone egg had hatched, the harpies had built their own mountain of corpses. The dead seraphim rotted in the sun, limbs slung together, and the harpies bustled above, digging into the meal. As Ishtafel approached, they hissed, snapped their teeth, and squealed with bloodlust and hunger. The beasts were larger than him, larger even than most dragons, their talons like lances. Yet they knew him as their lord. Shrieking, they retreated, their bloated heads—the heads of crones, covered in warts—bowing.

  He flew to the top of the rotting pile. The harpies returned, surrounding him, feeding. And Ishtafel fed with them, tearing into his meal, letting the meat fill him, the ichor stain him. Because it was not his blood. Because it was not his pain. He was strong now, and none would ever hurt him again.

  You hurt me, Mother, and now you lie dead and rotting. He licked the ichor off his lips. You burned me, dragons, and so you too will soon rot. Your mountain will rise into the sky, and we will feed upon it.

  He tore off flesh, swallowed, and grinned. He beat his wings and soared, and his host rose with him, a foul army that covered the sky. A new day rose and their hunt continued. They would not rest until their next meal was the flesh of weredragons.

  MELIORA

  Dawn rose, and she saw it in the north, gold and blue, a sight so beautiful her eyes dampened.

  The edge of Terra, Meliora thought. The edge of this cruel southern continent.

  Thousands of years ago, her mother's family had fallen from Edinnu, the blessed realm in the firmaments. The Eight Gods had cast out the seraphim, the immortals who had rebelled against their makers, banishing them to exile in Terra—a massive continent beneath the sky, a desolate land of rock and sand and heat. In the unforgiving land, they had forged a new kingdom, had raised a nation called Saraph, and they had spread across the world, crushing all other nations.

  Terra, this southern continent, had always seemed like Saraph's true earthly home. The place where the seraphim had cowered, nursed their wounds, built, grown strong. It had always seemed to Meliora that lands across the sea, while now part of her family's domain, were somehow not truly parts of Saraph but mere colonies—foreign, conquered lands.

  She did not reach the border of the empire here, for that empire now spread across the sea too. But in her mind, this coast, this edge of a continent—here the heartland ended, and there across the sea, Requiem began.

  "Beyond the water it waits," she whispered. "Requiem."

  Around Meliora, the other dragons cried out in joy and hope.

  "The coast!" rose a voice.

  "The edge of Saraph!"

  "Requiem is near!"

  They called out with joy. Old dragons wept. Young dragons spun in circles, whooping. On the dragons' backs, those who rode in human form played drums and timbrels, and their voices rose in song.

  Yet as the camp celebrated, Meliora remained silent. Again Leyleet's words returned to her.

  You will never see Requiem, daughter of dragons. With my dying breath I curse you: You will never see Requiem.

  Meliora narrowed her eyes. She would ignore those words. There was no use for them now. So long as she could fly, she could fight, she could lead. That was all that mattered now.

  "My lady!" The high voice rose from the south. "My lady Meliora!"

  Meliora turned in the sky to see a slender black dragon flying over the camp.

  Kira.

  Meliora's former handmaiden, now her scout, wobbled as she flew over the thousands of other dragons. Smoke spurted from her nostrils in short blasts. The young dragon was exhausted, but Kira still flew fast, streaming over the other dragons, calling out to her.

  "Lady Meliora!"

  Kira shot across the last mile, then descended to hover by Meliora at the head of the camp. The young black dragon panted, puffing out great clouds of smoke, barely able to speak.

  "Ride on my back, Kira." Meliora dipped to fly beneath her. "Rest and speak."

  The dark dragon gratefully thumped down onto Meliora's back, releasing her magic, becoming a slender woman with black hair and dark eyes. Kira crawled onto Meliora's neck and lay on her belly, limbs dangling, probably looking to the world like a monkey slung across a branch.

  "My lady, he grows closer!" Kira said, still breathing heavily. "Ishtafel and many harpies. They're flying faster than before, and a stench of blood rises from them, and blood stains their mouths and talons. I was barely able to fly back faster than they chased." Kira shuddered. "They'll be upon us within hours."

  Meliora clenched her jaw. Harpies flew faster than most dragons. Kira perhaps was young and quick, but most in Requiem were larger, older, slower dragons. Since leaving Tofet, Meliora had relied not on speed but on uninterrupted flight. Ishtafel's harpies still needed rest every day, but Vir Requis could fly in shifts, the dragons bearing those in human forms, taking turns flying and sleeping. Hope had begun to rise in Meliora that, if they only kept flying, they would flee Terra and leave Ishtafel's forces behind.

  Yet now, at the coast, would their short days of freedom end?

  She turned to look toward that northern coast. It still lay thirty leagues away. Only moments ago it had seemed close to Meliora, but now every mile seemed the length of an empire. As she stared north, she saw another dragon flying toward her, this one red.

  "Talana!" she cried.

  The red dragon, Meliora's second handmaiden-turned-scout, came to fly before her. She too panted, spurting out smoke, and her eyes were wide with fear.

  "My lady Meliora!" Talana said, hovering before her. "Great armies muster on the northern coast! Thousands of seraphim, my lady! And . . ." The dragon shuddered, scales rattling. "The Seven fly with them."

  Meliora hissed. "Impossible. The Seven died thousands of years ago."

  Talana would not stop shaking. She glanced back toward the coast, then looked back at Meliora. "I saw them!" she whispered. "Great figures of light. Towering. Burning. Hurting my eyes. Seven suns. Like
in the stories. They are here."

  Meliora's heart sank into her belly. Ice seemed to encase her bones and lungs.

  No. It can't be. Not them. They died. They died millennia ago, back in the rebellion against the gods.

  "Kira, Talana, go rest." Meliora had to force the words past her stiff lips. "Go to the center of the camp. Regain what strength you can before we reach the coast."

  The pair nodded and flew off, leaving Meliora with her fear. She stared ahead toward the coast. It was closer now, close enough to see its cities, great settlements of stone that rose before the water. And there, even in the searing daylight, shone beacons of light, clustered together.

  The Seven?

  A large blue dragon came flying toward her, eyes hard, staring north.

  "Who are these Seven?" Vale rumbled, fire flicking between his teeth.

  Meliora gulped. "Thousands of years ago, when we rebelled against the gods in Edinnu, great champions fought among the seraphim. Some called them Amesha Spenta. Others called them archangels. Only seven fought with the seraphim; only seven ever lived. Great beings of liquid light, larger, stronger than seraphim; we were as toddlers by their glory. But nobody has seen the archangels since our rebellion. Most seraphim assumed them dead, while others claimed that the Eight Gods had forgiven them and welcomed them back into Edinnu. They became to us things of myth—mere paintings on frescos, sculptures in temples, not beings of this world." She stared ahead, teeth clenched, breath heavy. "Yet I see bright lights ahead. And I saw truth in Talana's eyes."

  Vale grunted. "We slew Ziz. We will slay them."

  She turned to look at her brother. Vale was staring ahead, eyes hard. Many scars and wounds covered the blue dragon—welts on his underbelly, holes in his wings, and raw patches where his scales had fallen. Yet still he flew with bared teeth, fire in his nostrils, the warrior of Requiem, head of her hosts, ready to spill more blood.

  "Yet Ziz was still a beast of this world," Meliora whispered, her fear not allowing her to speak any louder. "Now we face unearthly terrors. Creatures woven not of flesh but of light itself." She turned to look behind her, staring across the thousands of dragons. "And in the south, they gain on us—creatures of darkness. We are trapped between light and shadow."

  Vale sneered, jaws opening to release a short burst of fire. "We will shine our own light. We will roar our fire. Our homeland lies beyond the water. We will shatter any who come between us and Requiem."

  The dragons of Requiem flew onward, crossing the last miles between harpies and sea, between Ishtafel and the light ahead, trapped between two hosts. When she looked behind her, Meliora could see the rotted host, closer than they had ever been, a cloud of dark specks in the distance—no more than an hour's flight away.

  "Take all our forces and put them at the vanguard," Meliora said to her brother as the coast approached. She could now see walls and towers ahead, and she sneered.

  Vale stared at her. "Ishtafel gains on us. We might be facing a war on two fronts."

  "If we are trapped, we are dead. No, brother. We cannot fight on two fronts. We cannot. All forces ahead! We smash through the enemy and we make to the sea."

  There was no hope to evade this enemy, Meliora knew. The entire coast of Terra was settled, and the enemy knew they were flying this way. They had been waiting.

  Meliora growled and blasted her pillar of dragonfire skyward.

  "Hear, O Requiem!" she cried. "We near the sea! We near our home! Fight the enemies of Requiem, fight for your stars, fight for your lives. To war!"

  Around her, the Royal Army stormed forth, thousands of dragons with fire in their mouths. "To war, to war! Requiem rises!"

  Ahead, they rose from the coastal walls and towers. A wall of fire and light. Thousands of seraphim ascended, some in chariots of fire, others flying fast upon their own wings. Meliora sought those beams of light, those Seven Suns, but she didn't see them. She prayed that Talana had been wrong, that she had just imagined the great lights.

  They're dead. They died thousands of years ago.

  "Requiem rises!" the army called.

  With dragonfire, with flying arrows and lances, with blood and flames that filled the sky, the hosts of Requiem and Saraph slammed together.

  The skies burned. Blood rained on the coast.

  Meliora roared as she fought. She blasted her fire, lashed her claws, bit into the flesh of seraphim. She cried out for Requiem, and she cried out wordlessly—for death, for victory, for her stars, for rising from ruin. Yet even under this blinding sky before a blue sea, she was back there—in the darkness outside Tofet, fighting the Rancid Angels, hearing the demon's words.

  You will never see Requiem.

  The wings of dragons darkened the sky. Their fire rose in great forests and columns—a rebuilt Requiem of flame. The seraphim circled everywhere, and the firehorses plowed through the hosts of dragons, and seraphim thrust their lances from blazing chariots. Corpses rained onto the coastal cities and sank into the sea.

  "Cut through them!" Vale cried in the distance. "Requiem, cut through the enemy, to the sea! To our home!"

  Meliora blasted out fire, melting a seraph who flew toward her. She soared, spinning, cutting other seraphim down with her whipping tail. She rose higher, higher than any eagle could fly, and stared south, and there she saw them—the harpies approaching, darkening the sky.

  She stared back down, and the battle looked to her like a different coast—a sea of fiery waves slamming against a land of scales. The seraphim were a terror, thousands of them crashing into the lines of dragons, yet as Meliora stared down, the hint of hope rose in her.

  Requiem was breaking through.

  A handful of dragons tore between the seraphim and made it across the water, only to turn back and charge against the seraphim still attacking the hosts. Elsewhere, chariots crashed into the water, raising pillars of smoke and steam, and dragons roared and fought with more vigor. Below in the coastal cities, Vir Requis were racing between the buildings in human forms, finding slaves and opening collars, and soon a thousand new dragons rose—only just freed, already flying to battle, slaying their masters.

  We can make it through, Meliora thought. We can leave this cruel land. We can cut through them, we can cross the sea. I will see Requiem.

  "I will see Requiem!" she whispered, tears in her eyes. "I will see our stars."

  And then she saw them—the lights rising.

  White, searing lights, burning her eyes.

  Seven suns rising.

  Her hope burned in their radiance.

  "The archangels," she whispered.

  LUCEM

  He was flying beside Elory, crying out for victory, when the archangels rose from beyond the city.

  Lucem cringed.

  "Bloody bollocks," he muttered. "One sun's bright enough in Saraph. Damn seven of them just rose."

  He beat his wings, hovering in place, and forced himself to stare into the light. He could barely see past the glare of the creatures. When he squinted, he could just make out their forms. They were humanoid and winged, slender and well-formed, but much larger than men or seraphim, larger even than dragons. They seemed woven of pure light, luminescence taken form. They were pure white like the noon sun in summer, but golden eyes blazed in their heads, barely visible past the glare of their bodies. In their right hands, each archangel held a mighty sword that seemed forged of molten metal that did not drip. The blades were as long as the spine of a dragon. In their left hands, they held great whips woven of fire, each lash thrice the length of even the longest dragon tail.

  "Take them head on!" rose Vale's voice from above, and the blue dragon charged, roaring. "Burn them down!"

  Across the sky, hundreds of dragons—the vanguard of Requiem—stormed to battle.

  "For Requiem!" Elory shouted at Lucem's side, charging forward.

  "Wait!" Lucem cried and tried to grab her tail, but she flew too quickly, racing across the sky toward the archangels.

&nb
sp; This won't end well, damn it.

  Lucem grunted, curbing the urge to flee. Every fiber in his body wanted to turn around, to escape this light, to fly to safety, to hide again in his cave.

  No. I fled once. I abandoned my people before, and they called me a hero. This time I fight.

  Lucem roared and flew after his comrades.

  Ahead, the archangels plowed through the dragons as easily as trained soldiers cutting through toddlers.

  One archangel swung his massive whip. The flaming white thong cracked the air and sliced through a dragon, cleanly cutting the beast in half. For an instant, both halves of the dragon tumbled through the sky; then they shrank into human form, the arms on one half, the legs on the other, falling toward the coast. Another archangel lashed his sword. The blade cleaved a dragon from back to belly. The dragon too lost his magic, falling as a lacerated woman.

  The archangels' light intensified as they fought, spinning madly, coiling and blazing, emitting a hum. Lucem had thought them made of sunlight, but now they seemed almost like beings of living lightning, crackling the air, their humming inferno almost melodious, almost like the song of Malok. They stormed through the lines of Requiem, scattering dragons, cutting them down. Vir Requis tumbled through the air before them, falling as men and women.

  Lucem stared in horror.

  I have to flee. I have to fly away. I have to hide. Oh stars, I have to hide.

  "Burn them down!" Vale was shouting in the distance. "Burn them down!"

  "Burn them!" Elory roared, flying above, streaming down with a flash of lavender scales.

  Hundreds of other dragons joined the charge, blasting their flames. The streams of dragonfire crackled through the air, slammed into the archangels, and showered in fountains.

  The godly beings seemed unfazed. They kept lashing their massive whips. One thong tore through three dragons with a single swing, cutting them all down, scattering limbs. Another archangel rose high upon his mighty wings, then swooped, blade plunging, cutting through dragon after dragon. The corpses thumped onto the city below.