Pillars of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  She raised her sword. "But I will allow you to."

  He shouted and thrust his lance toward her.

  Halo crackling, Meliora swung her blade, parrying the attack.

  There was no room in this narrow chamber to become a dragon, not without the walls crushing her. Here Meliora would fight as a woman, bearing the ancient blade of her people.

  "We once danced in a ballroom," Ishtafel said. "Now we dance with blades."

  And they danced.

  In the darkness underground, in the place where his lover had died, in Requiem—they danced.

  Meliora had been a warrior for a season; Ishtafel had slain enemies for centuries. She was no match for him. She knew this. She could not defeat the seraph who had cleansed the world of so many. But she fought him nonetheless. She fought him for her kingdom. She fought him for the memory of her father. She fought him for Tash, slain in war. For her mother, slain in slavery. For sixty thousand decimated over the City of Kings, for countless more slain here in Requiem. For her stars. For the hopes and memories of an ancient race. For one child who cowered in the corner. For them all, she swung her sword, parrying his lance again and again, thrusting her blade, trying to kill him, knowing she could not.

  Across Requiem, she knew, the great war still raged. And she knew that Requiem, like her, no longer had hope. That all dragons would perish under the harpies, as she would perish underground. And here—here in this chamber beat the heart of the war. A seraph. A Vir Requis. Brother. Sister. Master. Slave. Blade and blade. The old dance of her people.

  His lance thrust, cracking the armor on her arm, cutting open the flesh, revealing the innards.

  Meliora screamed and lashed her blade, slamming it against Ishtafel, but she could not dent his steel.

  His lance thrust again, cutting through her armor, piercing her thigh. She cried out and nearly fell, swung her sword, knocked his lance aside, and brought her blade down hard onto his arm. Yet the steel would not even dent.

  Again he attacked, this time swinging his shield. The sharp edge slammed into Meliora, cleaving through her steel armor as if it were tin, cutting into her side under the ribs. She cried out, voice weaker now, her blood dripping down her thigh and arm. His lance struck yet again, scraping across her cheek, and pain blazed, and more of her blood spilled.

  "The blood of weredragons mixed with the ichor of the immortals," Ishtafel said. "Have you bled enough yet, Meliora? Are you ready to let the pain end? You can still live."

  She screamed and charged, sword flying. She swung her blade down, and it scraped across his helmet, doing him no harm.

  His shield drove forward and slammed into her face.

  Meliora fell.

  Even before she hit the ground, she felt teeth knocked out from her mouth, felt her nose shatter. She hit the stone floor, crying out in agony, tasting blood.

  She lay on her back, dazed, consumed with more pain than she'd ever felt. Her vision blurred, but she could make him out standing above her. He raised his lance, placed it against her thigh, and stared down at her.

  "Drop your sword," he said. "Or I take your leg. Then your other leg. Then both your arms."

  She wanted to shift into a dragon, even if the chamber were too small, even if she slammed against the walls and crushed herself. But the child was still here, weeping in the corner. She could not crush him, not even to kill Ishtafel. She wanted to call to the child, to tell him to flee, but she could not speak. Blood and shattered teeth filled her mouth. Even if she wanted to, perhaps she was too weak to shift now, too hurt, dying.

  I'm sorry, Requiem. I failed. I'm sorry.

  She gave a wordless, gurgling cry and raised her sword.

  The spear drove down, cleaving metal and flesh, driving through her thigh and into the floor.

  She screamed. Her sword clanged uselessly against his armor, and Ishtafel grabbed the blade with his gauntlets, yanked the sword free, and tossed it again.

  Meliora could barely cling to consciousness. The lance still pierced her thigh, pinning her to the floor. Ishtafel twisted the blade inside her, and Meliora screamed.

  "I once pinned your brother to the ziggurat, you remember," he said. "I do enjoy pinning my precious little butterflies. Now that you're safe, I have a gift for you. Do you want to see?"

  He reached for something that hung from his belt, tugged it free, and displayed it to her.

  A collar.

  A slave's collar.

  No. Meliora's tears mingled with her blood. Oh, stars of Requiem, no.

  He leaned down, pressed his knee against her belly, and closed the collar around her neck.

  "Now you are my slave again." He kissed her bloody, shattered mouth and licked his lips. "Now you are mine forever."

  "And . . ." She coughed, struggling to speak, just barely managing to push out the words. ". . . I . . . have a . . . gift . . . for . . . you."

  She reached above her head.

  When you cut off my wings, Ishtafel, my halo of pure godlight died. That day, a halo of dragonfire crackled to life around my brow. That day you gave me a weapon.

  She closed her hand around the ring of fire.

  It burned her palm but she did not scream.

  She yanked her halo, tearing, ripping, severing. It felt like ripping off a limb, like cutting off her own scalp. She raised it before her—the same halo that had once burned Ishtafel's face—and smiled to see him recoil. She closed her second hand around the flaming ring, bent hard, and snapped the halo.

  The flames shrieked as she tugged the halo, twisting the circle into a fiery horseshoe.

  Requiem is eternal.

  She screamed and shoved the dragonfire forth.

  The two flaming prongs drove through the holes in Istafel's helmet, pierced his eyes, dug deep into his skull, and seared through the back of the helmet.

  She released the halo and lifted her sword. Slowly, she rose to her feet.

  Ishtafel fell to his knees, the broken halo embedded deep into his head. He was still alive. A hissing, horrible whine rose from him, an inhuman sound. He pawed at his metal mask and tore it free.

  Meliora took a step back. He had no face left. Only raw, rotting muscle over bone, infected and dripping.

  She cringed and shoved her sword forward. The ancient blade of Requiem drove into his neck and shattered within.

  Light pulsed out from him, searing, blinding her, knocking her against the wall. His armor shattered, blasting out from him. The shards drove into Meliora, piercing her own armor, piercing her flesh, searing hot, melting inside her. The light turned black but still flowed, oozing out of Ishtafel like demons, cackling, slamming into her.

  "I curse you!" rose his voice from the inferno. "I curse you, daughter of Aeternum! You will never see Requiem."

  Only it was no longer his voice; it had become the voice of Leyleet, speaking in her memories.

  Ishtafel shattered and fell, broken apart, his light gone dark, his halo fading to a wisp and vanishing. Meliora fell with him, her own halo gone, her own body broken. She still clutched the hilt of her bladeless sword.

  And Meliora understood.

  She knew now. She knew the meaning of the curse.

  I saw the land of Requiem, and I saw King's Column rising from ruin. But I will not see Requiem reborn. I will not see her in peace. I will not see children running through the forest and flying above, laughing. I will not see my family grow old and our children holding our torch. I will not see spring in Requiem, and I will not see the marble halls rise anew.

  Tears filled Meliora's eyes, and she smiled tremulously.

  But I know now that Requiem will rise. That those columns and temples will stand again in the forest. That our kingdom will endure. I know that Requiem is eternal and that I will forever rest in her starlit halls.

  Her eyes were going dark now. But as she lay on the ground, she could still turn her head, and she saw him there. The boy. He stared back at her, weeping, trembling. Living.

 
I saved at least one life. I saved a world entire. I brought light to this world, though I lived through much darkness. I sought righteousness though I saw much evil. I love you, Vale. I love you, Elory. I love you, Father. Always. Always. I will forever fly in the light you gave me.

  Meliora Aeternum's eyes closed, and her world faded to starlight and a soothing end to pain.

  VALE

  He flew in the storm, bleeding, broken, close to death, when the harpies shrieked and the sky opened up to swallow them.

  The bloated, feathered creatures spun in a maelstrom, eyes bugging out, talons scratching the sky.

  "He is gone, he is gone!" they shrieked. "The master is gone!"

  They flew in the wind, yanked backward, calling out in fear, hundreds of thousands of them. Their wings buzzed madly, shedding a rain of black, sticky feathers. Their voices rose in a deafening shriek, a sound that snapped the last trees below, that sent rocks tumbling, that cracked the earth itself. They rose from the tunnels below, sucked up into the sky, thousands and thousands emerging from the underground, all screeching in fear.

  "He is dead! He is fallen! Ishtafel is no more!"

  Vale flew on the wind with the last survivors of the Royal Army, a ragtag group of dragons—so few—with dented armor and bloodied claws. Til flew near him; the orange dragon's armor was cracked, her scales broken beneath it, and her eyes were haunted. Her brother flew with her, a black dragon, tears in his eyes. Only a handful of other warriors still flew. Most lay dead below.

  The harpies no longer attacked. The warty creatures turned and tried to flee, to fly back south, but the storm caught them. The clouds churned above, darkening, flashing with lightning. An eye opened in the storm, revealing the sky. An eclipse burned above, the moon hiding the sun, forming a ring of fire like a halo.

  "Our master is dead! Ishtafel is no more!"

  The eclipse seemed to stare down through the storm, all-seeing, a great eye—the Eye of Saraph, staring from the lost realm of the gods. The harpies wailed as the storm caught them, pulling them upward toward that eye. They were as ants in water, drawn into a drain, but sucked upward, into the funnel, toward the waiting eye. Thousand by thousand, they rose, battling it, flapping their wings, clawing the sky, unable to resist as the gods reeled them upward. They kept emerging from the tunnels, from the forest, rising and rising, slamming into those dragons who still flew, then rising some more, vanishing into the hole in the sky. The wind shrieked. Broken branches and rocks flew through the air. Lightning slammed into the earth, and fire raced across the frozen soil of Requiem.

  And then they were gone.

  The last harpy vanished into the eye of the storm.

  The maelstrom settled, and the clouds calmed. Rain began to fall, pattering against the dragons' armor and cleansing the earth of blood.

  Vale looked around him at the sky. Several thousand dragons still flew here, some soldiers in armor, others civilians.

  Far more Vir Requis lay dead below, their bodies shattered, torn apart, burnt, their light forever darkened.

  "Father," Vale whispered. "Elory. Meliora."

  He could not see them.

  He cried out, "Father! Elory! Meliora!"

  Across the rest of Requiem, a few cheers rose. A few voices sang in triumph. But more of the Vir Requis called out in pain, seeking their loved ones. Dragons flew above in circles, scanning the toppled forest, crying out the names of family and friends. Other Vir Requis ran through the forest in human form, moving between the bodies, weeping and seeking their loved ones—sometimes finding them dead.

  Vale dived down.

  He landed on the forest floor outside a tunnel's entrance—the archway shaped as two rearing dragons, claws touching. Many Vir Requis were emerging from the tunnels, clutching wounds, faces ashen.

  Vale's heart thudded, and his fingers trembled.

  Maybe they're in there, he thought. Maybe my family made it into the tunnels, maybe they lived, maybe—

  Four soldiers came stepping out from the underground, carrying a makeshift litter made from a cloak and spears.

  Vale's heart seemed to stop and shatter.

  Before he even saw her, he knew.

  The soldiers of Requiem walked toward him, faces grim, armor dented, eyes hard. The birch leaves and stars shone on their armor in the sunlight, but no beauty could fill the world this day. No light could shine through this darkness. Upon the litter she lay, her eyes closed, her face peaceful in death. Meliora Aeternum, Princess of Requiem.

  My sister.

  Vale fell to his knees, raised his head to the sky, and cried out in agony.

  The storm above parted, revealing blue skies, and the sunlight shone on a ruined world.

  ELORY

  "Lucem!" she cried. "Lucem, where are you?"

  Elory moved through the forest of the dead, back in human form, calling out his name. She wore dented, rusty armor. The wind blew ash into her hair. All around her spread the dead. Dead harpies, rotting in the sunlight, bloated bodies cut open. Dead soldiers of Requiem, armor cracked, eyes dark. Dead women, children, elders, some bodies unrecognizable. Countless dead. A victory drenched in blood. Hope buried under grief.

  "Lucem!"

  The trees lay fallen around her. Barely any still stood. Never had Elory seen such devastation, not even in Tofet. Perhaps Requiem would rise, perhaps Requiem had found its kingdom, its peace, its rededication, but here was a cursed victory. Here was a tragedy, not a triumph.

  She limped across the hills, her wounds burning. Hundreds of others walked around her, calling out the names of their lost ones. King's Column rose a mile away, the sunlight shining on its marble, the dead piled up around its base, and even this ancient pillar—soaring so high, so bright—could not soothe the children of Requiem.

  "Lucem!" she cried, tears in her eyes.

  She had seen him fall. She had seen him vanish into smoke. It had been here! Right here! Yet she could not find him. Was he one of those bodies too burnt and ravaged to recognize? Had the harpies consumed him, or had—

  "Elory."

  A hoarse whisper.

  Fresh tears flooded Elory's eyes.

  She ran forward.

  "Elory," rose the whisper again.

  Several bodies lay ahead. Elory ran toward them, pulled the lifeless aside, and saw him there. Lying on the ground. Face gray as if coated with paste. Eyes sunken.

  "Lucem," she said, voice trembling.

  His leg was gone, and he clutched the stump. He had managed to pull off his belt, to fashion a tourniquet, but so much blood drenched the soil around him.

  "I need a healer!" Elory cried, staring skyward. "A healer, please!"

  Yet none answered. Few knew healing in Requiem, and those who did had too many to treat. She had to find her father, if he had lived. She had to find somebody who could pray, fix this, stop this bleeding.

  "Elory," he whispered, reaching out a trembling, bloodless hand toward her. "Elory, be with me. Don't leave me."

  "I won't." She knelt by him, caressed his cheek, and kissed his lips. Those lips were so cold. "I'm right here, Lucem. I'm right here. You stay with me. You don't leave me either."

  He managed to smile—a weak, shaky smile. "We showed 'em, didn't we?"

  She nodded, her tears splashing his face. "We did. We won, Lucem. Requiem is saved. You have to stay with me. You have to be with me when we rebuild. We have to build that little house, remember? The one with the garden. And have children. And grow old together."

  "You'll have a house," he whispered. "And a garden. And children. Maybe not with me. I—"

  "Hush!" She glared at him, still weeping. "You're going to live. You're going to be fine. I'm going to take care of you, I promise. I'm going to heal you."

  He was fading. His blood kept dripping, his skin grew colder, his face more pale. Elory trembled and looked up to the sky.

  She was no priestess. She was no healer. She had never heard the gods speak to her, as they had spoken to her fa
ther and to Vale.

  "But I am a daughter of Aeternum," she whispered, staring at the sunlit sky. "If you can hear me even in the daylight, and if my name and my grief mean anything to you, please, stars of Requiem. Please, Issari. Let him live. I love him."

  The sunlight was bright and she could not see the stars. She looked down at Lucem, and she placed a hand on his brow.

  "Heal him, stars of Requiem," she whispered. "Don't let him leave me. He is the hero of Requiem. The first to resist. The man I love. And I need him. I can't fight on without him."

  As she held his hand, his trembles eased, and he grew limp, and Elory sobbed, sure that his life was slipping away. She leaned down and kissed his lips.

  "Live," she whispered.

  And she felt his breath. It was shallow, but it was still there, steady, calm. Strong.

  Ash rained from the sky, and dragons flew above, and Elory remained with him, holding his hand, praying, whispering to him, never letting him go.

  VALE

  It rained as they buried the dead.

  The dragons labored through the day and night, digging graves, and at dawn they said their goodbyes. At dawn they wept. At dawn they beheld the price of their victory: row upon row of graves, stretching across the ravaged forest, hundreds of thousands of lost lights.

  Most of the dead were never named. Some could no longer be recognized. Many others had lost all those who might have known their names. They had no tombstones. They lay nameless, no markers on their grave, yet perhaps in future springs new trees would grow here. Perhaps saplings would rise from these graves, pushing through the ash and shattered branches, and a forest would rise here again. A forest of the dead. A forest of new life. The forest of Requiem.

  Yet there were still some tombstones in this land.

  Upon a hill rose the ancient graves of Requiem's kings and queens. King Aeternum, founder of the nation, and Queen Laira, the Mother of Requiem. King Benedictus, who had fought the griffins. Queen Gloriae the Gilded, who had rebuilt Requiem from ruin. Queen Lyana who had slain phoenixes. King Valien Eleison and his wife, Queen Kaelyn Cadigus, who had healed a Requiem torn by civil war. Queen Fidelity, defeater of the Cured Temple, who raised the dragons again after their magic had nearly been lost. The names from the books. From the legends. From the old songs. The great heroes and heroines of Requiem's history, those souls who had fought so many enemies, who had led Requiem in war, who had rebuilt her halls so many times.