A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3)

by Arenson, Daniel

  Tilla remained upon the tower. She placed her hands against the battlements, blew out her breath, and found herself shivering. If she could not sway Rune soon, she suspected that blade would cut her too.

  "Stars damn you, Rune," she whispered into the wind.

  She shifted into a dragon. She flew.

  The snowy wind roared around her. Tilla dived across Cadigus Square, a cobbled expanse larger than all of Cadport. Leaving the palace grounds behind, she flew over crowded streets and houses. Troops marched below and dragons shrieked above.

  A mile south of the palace, she saw the Citadel, a crumbling edifice rising from snow.

  Many years ago, this fortress had been called Castra Murus, the barracks of the city guardians. When Frey had established the Axehand Order, he drafted the old City Guard into his Legions, then turned the castle into a prison. The Citadel, they called it now—a place of pain, blood, and screams. No more noble warriors filled its halls. Today prisoners languished in its cellars, chained and beaten. Today blood stained the old bricks. Today she would find Rune here.

  When first bringing Rune north, she had imprisoned him in a cell by the courtyard. When he would not cave, she had moved him to the dungeon. She had hoped the darkness, the echoing screams, and the smell of blood would sway him. Yet still Rune would not hail the red spiral. And so Tilla had moved him again. Now Rune languished in the cruelest cell this prison contained, a place where minds had broken, where prisoners had smashed their skulls against the wall to end the pain.

  She flew above the prison courtyard and halls, heading toward the Red Tower.

  Four towers rose from the Citadel, but the Red Tower was the most infamous. Its bricks were as gray and craggy as the rest of the keep; it was named after the blood that flowed within. Frey had imprisoned and tortured his greatest enemies here. Generals loyal to the old king, lords sworn to Aeternum, and resistors caught lurking in the city—all had languished here.

  Tilla landed in a courtyard below the tower, shook her head to scatter her smoke, and returned to human form. The tower guards saluted her, and Tilla stepped between them and through the doorway. She climbed the spiraling staircase, heading up toward him.

  She climbed many steps, and her breath was heavy when she reached the tower top. An oaken door stood here. Tilla wore the key on a chain around her neck. With a creak, she opened the door and stepped into the darkness.

  The day was bright outside, the sun glittering across the snow, but shadows filled this room. Two arrowslits, vestiges of the Citadel's olden days, allowed narrow beams of light to fall into the chamber.

  One beam, which lit the western wall, fell upon horror. A stretching rack stood here beside an iron maiden. Smaller torture instruments hung on pegs: hammers, thumbscrews, pliers, floggers, and a dozen other tools of mutilation. Dried blood covered the instruments; Shari had used them many times upon her prisoners.

  The second beam, which lit the northern wall, fell upon Rune.

  Tilla released her breath and her belly twisted.

  "Rune," she whispered.

  He sat against the wall, his wrists manacled behind his back. A chain ran from the manacles to a bracket, only a few feet long. Dirt and old bruises darkened his skin. Shari had beaten him the first day, but she had not tortured him yet.

  I have until the new moon, Tilla thought. Only eleven days to sway him. And then Shari will pull her tools off the wall, and when I visit Rune again, I will not recognize him.

  He looked up at her between strands of scraggly hair.

  "Tilla," he said hoarsely, lips cracked.

  Chains clanking, he struggled to stand up. He winced, still weak and haggard, then fell back down and sat panting.

  "You used to be so strong," Tilla said. "We'd fight with wooden swords on the beach. We'd run and wrestle and swim and fly. Oh, Rune. It doesn't have to be this way."

  He glared up at her, chest rising and falling, as if every breath was a struggle. Tilla stepped toward him. Armor clanking, she sat down and leaned against him.

  "It doesn't have to be this way," Rune repeated, raspy. "You are right, Tilla. You are right. We could have fled this place the first day. We can still flee. You carry the key around your neck. You just need to unchain me. There are only two guards outside. We need only break past them and fly."

  Tilla laid her head against his shoulder, placed a hand on his thigh, and sighed. "You know I can't do that."

  Rune wriggled away as best he could in his chains. "And you know I can't do what you ask."

  She turned to look at him, narrowed her eyes, and held his shoulder. "Why? Why, Rune? I... Oh stars, look at you." Her eyes dampened. "It hurts me to see you like this. Thin. Haggard. Your body bruised. I can't see you like this, Rune, chained here. If you just hail the red spiral, if you just join Frey, we can—"

  "And it hurts me to see you like this," he said, and his eyes flashed. "Chains? Bruises? They are nothing compared to what I see. I see a girl from Lynport, a friend, a kind woman clad in black steel, bearing the sigil of evil. I see a roper's daughter, a woman I love, serving a beast and wielding his weapons and—"

  "I serve Requiem!" she said, her turn to interrupt. "Frey is a beast? Yes, Rune. Frey is evil? Perhaps. But we cannot save the world. We cannot defeat him. So we must serve him, and we must serve Requiem. Rune, please. None of this should have happened. None of it! If you hadn't joined the Resistance, Castra Luna would still stand, and our friends would still live—Mae Baker and all the others. Cadport—and yes, I still call it Cadport—would still stand." She dug her fingers into his shoulders, hurting him but not caring. "But you fought against Requiem. You killed thousands. You lured the Legions to our city, and you watched that city burn, and now everyone from our home is dead. Everyone we grew up with. Everyone we ever knew. Dead, Rune. Dead because of you."

  "Not because of me!" He shouted now. "I fought for our city. I fought for our kingdom. I fought for you, Tilla. I fought to save you from him, and now... now you imprison me here, and you ask me to praise your lord? To praise the man who burned our city?"

  "I ask you to live!" she said. "I ask you to... to avoid that wall." She gestured at the western wall where the torture instruments hung. "She will torture you, Rune. You do not know what she can do. She will dislocate your bones. She will cut off your manhood and force you to watch her burn it. She will flay your skin, remove your organs, and make you scream for the red spiral. She's done this to enemies before. You've been in this chamber for long days. You've studied her instruments. Why do you still refuse to join us?"

  Rune closed his eyes and his face paled. He shook his head.

  "You won't let them do that," he whispered. "I have to believe, Tilla. I still believe in you. You will not let them do that."

  "I cannot stop them. Only you can."

  He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  "Tilla," he said, "do you remember our last night in Lynport? Not the battle. The night before you joined the Legions."

  Her throat constricted. Her eyes dampened, and she blinked and clenched her fists.

  "I remember," she whispered.

  "We can find another beach," he said. "We can flee to distant lands together, to unexplored countries, or to the deserts across the sea. We can be together again. Not in this place. Not here in this cruel city. We can be like we were."

  Tilla tasted a tear on her lips, and she hated herself for it, and she hated Rune for making her cry. She had not shed tears for moons in Castra Academia as her tormentors burned her, but she cried here.

  "Those days are gone." She held his shoulders, knelt above him, and stared into his eyes. "They are gone, Rune. They are over. You cannot flee Frey; his arm is too long. You cannot fight him; he is too strong. But we can be together here. We can serve him together, two soldiers for his cause."

  He shook his head. "Never. I will never serve him, and I will not watch you serve him."

  She pulled his hair back f
rom his brow and found herself caressing it. She leaned forward, kissed his cheek, and whispered into his ear.

  "Please. Please, if you have any love for me, if our memories together mean anything to you... do as I say. Worship him. Save yourself."

  She rose to leave. She walked toward the door, tears in her eyes.

  His voice rose behind her. "I surrendered myself to save the last people of Lynport... but also to save you, Tilla. Also to save you."

  She could not bear to turn and look at him. Her tears streamed down her cheeks. She left the chamber, closed the door behind her, and bit her lip until she tasted blood.

  VALIEN

  He stood upon the beach, watching the old man caw, run in circles, and plead for his life.

  "Calm yourself, friend!" Valien said. "We won't harm you."

  The old man wore but a loincloth and a belt strung with his prosthetic hands. His eyes bulged with fear. He tugged at his long white hair, and his chest, frail enough to reveal his ribs, rose and fell as he panted.

  "You... you are Vir Requis!" he said, voice high and quavering like a bird's call. "You burn us. You burn my home! You burn Tiranor. But Bantis will fight you. Bantis invents. Bantis booms things. Big weapon. Bantis dig for it. Bantis kill you all!"

  With that, he resumed running in circles. He raced toward his beached raft, an old thing of rotten wood and rope. When he saw the two resistors who stood nearby, he turned the other way and ran, nearly slamming himself against two more. He fell into the sand, leaped up, and began to wave his arms like a man trying to shoo away squirrels.

  Standing at Valien's side, Kaelyn sighed.

  "He was like this when I found him," she said. "He was living on a rock he called Genesis Isle. I think he was alone there for a very long time. But he spoke of other survivors. I thought my father killed all Tirans, but... Oh stars, I hope he's not the last."

  Valien looked at her, and as always—no matter how many times he gazed upon her—he felt his fear melt under sadness. Kaelyn had always been pale, but the southern sun had bronzed her skin. Her hair, once dark as honey, had lightened under this sunlight into a bright gold. Instead of her forest garb, she stood barefoot in the sand, clad in a white tunic, a wild thing swept from the sea onto the shore, a mythical creature of sand and sun and secrets. But her eyes were the same—hazel, soft, and kind, the eyes that had warmed Valien through the years of war.

  "He's a Tiran," he said. "I visited Tiranor years ago. I was little older than you are now, and I still served the old king." He looked across the sea and inhaled deeply, remembering the scent of the southern desert, a perfume of sand and spices. "The Tirans were a proud people, tall and golden-skinned and blue-eyed, their hair a platinum so pale it seemed almost white. They lived in oases where palm trees soared, cranes sang, and limestone palaces rose into blue skies. They spread across dunes and mountains, bringing life to the desert. I spent a year there, an ambassador of Requiem. I still miss the sweetness of Tiranor's wine, figs, and dates; her music of lutes and drums; the song of her trees and birds; and mostly her people, an old enemy of Requiem grown into a close friend." Valien returned his eyes to Kaelyn and his voice soured. "Frey Cadigus burned that land and slaughtered those people, his revenge for a war seven hundred years ago. He burned the oases. He butchered mothers and babes. He toppled temples and slew every Tiran he found. I thought they had all died. And here we have this one... a survivor."

  Bantis was crouched in the sand, hopping like a frog. Hearing Valien's last sentence, he looked up and tilted his head like an inquisitive owl.

  "Survivor?" he said, hopping around on his hands. "Yes, yes, Bantis survived! Others too. Army! Army like this one, yes." He gestured at the resistors who covered the beach and hills of the island.

  Valien looked around him and sighed.

  Army? he thought. No, this was no army. These were but ragged survivors too.

  The island was small, no larger than the city of Lynport back in Requiem. Valien had named it Horsehead Island due to its shape. Perhaps it had no true name; it did not appear in the maps of Requiem. Located a three-day flight from the empire's southeastern shore, it housed the remains of his Resistance. Three thousand men and women lived here in huts, caves, or simply upon the beach. Their clothes were ragged and their weapons dulled, but their eyes still shone. Some of these resistors had been following Valien for years—they had hidden with him in the ruins of Confutatis, fought with him at Castra Luna, and crawled with him through tunnels in Lynport. Others had just recently joined his command—some were men of Cain's Canyon, outcast from Requiem after fighting Frey, and others had once followed the outlaw Leresy Cadigus. They walked across the beach, moved between the huts, and climbed the hills, haggard and long of hair and tanned of skin. An army? Valien did not know.

  Maybe we're little better than old Bantis, he thought.

  A voice rose behind him, twisted with contempt.

  "I say we put the old bugger out of his misery."

  He turned to see Leresy walking across the beach, a smirk on his face.

  Valien growled. "And since when did anyone care what you say, boy?"

  The young, outcast prince ignored him. Strutting as if he still wore finery rather than sandy rags, Leresy approached the old Tiran. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose.

  "Stars above, the old man stinks," he said. He lifted a stick and jabbed Bantis with it. "All scrawny too, ribs showing and all. I say we put him down. He's no use to us."

  Bantis seemed to find his courage. He snapped his teeth at Leresy, shoved the stick aside, and barked like an enraged dog.

  "Scrawny?" the old man demanded. "No use? Bantis has many uses. Bantis is an inventor. Bantis invented hand cannons. Bantis invented glass eyes that can see far. Bantis is digging—digging for big weapon. Genesis Isle is little, but big weapon is there. Weapon to slay dragons." He puffed out his chest. "Bantis smells like gunpowder; he no stinks."

  With a grumble, Valien trudged forward, shoved Leresy aside, and stared at the wild-haired old man.

  "Bantis, you said there are others," Valien said. "Where are they? Did other Tirans survive?"

  "Oh yes, oh yes!" Bantis said and resumed hopping, spinning around, and kicking sand. "Many others survived. They live on Maiden Island. Big island, it is, big like this one. But they banished poor Bantis. All because Bantis loves explosives. Poor poor Bantis. He built them hand cannons and fireballs and lots of things that go boom! And poor Bantis now lives alone."

  Valien looked up and met Kaelyn's gaze. She nodded and he returned his eyes to the old man.

  "Bantis, will you show us there? Will you lead us to the others?"

  The old man's eyes widened. He tugged at his long, white hair and bounced about in circles like a monkey on a leash, slapping the sand.

  "Take you there? Yes, yes. Bantis take you to the others. Bantis trusts you. Follow! Follow. We go to their island. But not as dragons, no! Shoot you they will. Kill you with my inventions." He hopped toward his raft, which lay upon the shore. "We oar our way there, yes."

  He detached his shovel prosthetic, slung it from his belt, and lifted an oar from the raft. He attached the oar to his stub, grinned, and looked at Valien eagerly like a dog begging for a walk.

  "Follow, follow! Bantis take you." He began to paddle the raft through the sand, seemingly unaware that it wasn't moving. "Follow!"

  Valien sighed and looked at Kaelyn. She gave him a grin, her teeth bright white against her tanned face. She hefted her bow across her shoulder and gripped her sword.

  "Ready for another adventure?" she asked.

  Valien's heart twisted again. Her golden hair, her blue eyes, her smile that spoke of all the fire, blood, and rain they'd flown through—every time they hurt him.

  "Never and always," he answered.

  He gave a few orders to his men, then began pushing the raft toward the sea. Kaelyn pushed at his side. Scrawny Bantis stood upon the raft, rowing as if he himself
were moving the vessel. He whooped as it splashed into the waves.

  Valien and Kaelyn waded through the water, pushing the raft deeper. Waves rose and fell. Bantis kept oaring upon the raft, but the waves grew larger, splashing and shoving the raft back toward the shore.

  With a grumble, Valien shifted into a dragon.

  He flattened himself so his belly grazed the sea floor, and his nostrils rose above the water. He beat his tail, driving forward and pushing the raft.

  "Bantis oars fast!" Bantis said upon the raft, his oar barely even skimming the water. "No waves can stop old Bantis."

  Valien rolled his eyes, snorted smoke, and kept shoving the raft. The waves crashed against them. The raft rose and fell violently, almost flipping over. Still in human form, Kaelyn climbed onto the vessel and crouched low. She pulled Bantis down beside her.

  "Hold on tight while you oar, friend," she said. She looked back at Valien and winked.

  The waves grew larger and larger, crashing against them. The last one would have overturned the raft had Valien, swimming behind, not held tight with his claws. Past the last breaker, he shifted back into human form, climbed onto the raft, and shook water from his hair.

  "Poor poor Valien," said Bantis, looking at him in concern. "Waves were too strong for you. You fell overboard. It's okay, Bantis steered us through."

  Valien grunted, spat overboard, and watched Horsehead Island dwindle behind them. A single, orphaned archway rose upon its peak, green with ivy. Three columns, the vestiges of an ancient temple, still stood upon its shore; twenty other columns lay fallen around them. Resistors moved across the beach, between the trees, and upon the hilltops.

  It was not a bad life. Valien could stay there, lead his men, and find a new life with Kaelyn. A life of sunlight. Of peace. Of trees and whispering waves and no more war, no more fire or blood.

  He gritted his teeth. But no. They'd been living here for a moon now. The time would come for them to fly again. To fight. To bleed.