by Colt, K. J.
The new members of his tribe stood here too. Sena—slender, his cheeks soft—stood wrapped in a cloak, pale with frost. He stared down at the grave, silent, thoughtful. Laira stood at his side, holding his hand.
You too are my family now, Jeid thought, looking upon them. I will fight for all of you.
He knelt and placed a single birch leaf upon the grave, securing it with a stone. His father had always loved birches, and it was the only gift Jeid had to give. The others followed, one by one, placing down their own leaves and stones. Snow dusted the gifts.
Jeid straightened and looked at his new people. Young. Afraid. Looking to him for guidance. He spoke softly as the snow fell.
“Thus, with leaf and stone, we say goodbye.” The others stared at him, eyes large, lips tight. “Thus, with blood and fire, we defended our home. We fled a village, a tribe, a southern kingdom. All over the world they hunt us—the people they call diseased, the cursed ones they call weredragons. But we are blessed. We are Vir Requis, and our magic comes from the stars.” He looked up at that sky as if, past the pale sunlight and clouds, he could see those stars. “For a long time, I called Requiem a tribe. Tribes move across the world, seeking safety, struggling to survive.” Jeid shook his head. “Requiem will be no tribe. We will be a kingdom.” He looked back at them, meeting their eyes one by one. “We will tell the world: You can no longer hunt us. We will no longer hide. No more will the children of Requiem hide underground, ashamed, afraid.”
They nodded. Maev growled and raised her fist. Tanin punched his palm and sneered. Laira’s eyes lit up, and she raised her chin, and even her brother straightened and gazed ahead with pride.
“We will stand proud!” Jeid said, his voice rising louder. “We are only five, but more will join us. Many more Vir Requis hide across the world, afraid, believing they are cursed. We will trumpet our cause and call our people home. We will raise a palace of stone, and we will tell all tribes and nations: If you hunt us, you will die. If you attack us, you will burn. Dragons will rise! The kingdom of Requiem will last ten thousand years.”
“Yes!” Maev said. The young woman shifted into a dragon, beat her wings, and soared. She raised a great pillar of fire, and her roar pealed across the land. “Requiem! I fight for you.”
One by one, the others shifted too. They took flight, roaring for Requiem.
Only Jeid remained on the ground, still in human form. He looked down at the graves, and his eyes stung.
For you, Father. For you, my daughter. For you, unknown warrior. For all those who’ve died.
He looked up at the sky, shifted too, and took flight. He joined the others. They hovered above the hills and valleys, and Jeid added his flames to theirs. Five jets rose, spinning and crackling with heat and light, wreathing together into a great column of fire, a beacon for hope, for life, and for a new home.
They flew through the day and night, five dragons no longer afraid, until they reached the great mountains of Dair Ranin. There their claws dug, cutting loose marble from the mountainside, a great round pillar they could not carry, but which they rolled across the hills and valleys upon a wagon of logs.
For long days they worked in the forest, carving, smoothing, sculpting, using both dragon claws and bronze tools. The rocs awaited them in the hills beyond, for here among these birches—here was holy ground, blessed with dragon starlight. Fresh snow covered the trees when finally their work was done. A great column rose between the birches, three hundred feet tall, its marble smooth and glittering like the snow, its capital shaped as rearing dragons.
They stood before the pillar, five dragons, dwarfed by the size of their creation. It seemed to Jeid that the pillar glimmered with inner light. A circle of marble tiles stretched around it, and birch leaves scuttled upon the polished stone. In the distance, rising above the forest, sunlight gilded the distant mountains.
“The Column of Requiem,” Jeid said. He shifted back into human form and placed a hand upon it. “A beacon to draw our kind to this forest like a lighthouse draws in ships.”
Laira shifted back into human form too. She held Jeid’s hand and leaned against him.
“Requiem is a true kingdom now.” She stared up at the pillar. “But we need a king.” She looked at him and touched his cheek. “You vowed to lead us. Be our king.”
The others gathered closer, also resuming human forms. They nodded, one by one.
Jeid barked a laugh. “King Jeid Blacksmith? Doesn’t sound very kingly.”
“It sounds bloody stupid,” Maev said and spat.
Laira smiled and placed her small, pale hand against Jeid’s wide chest. “You told us that Requiem will last ten thousand years. But Requiem will last for eternity. Give yourself a new name, not the name of a blacksmith but the name of a dragon. Become King Aeternum, a king whose song will echo through the ages.”
Beside them, Tanin nodded in approval. “King Aeternum. I like it. Future generations might even think Jeid was noble, not a grizzled, gruff grizzly.”
“The only thing eternal about Grizzly is his appetite,” Maev muttered.
Jeid sighed and shook his head. Ignoring his children, he looked back up at the column. It soared past the treetops toward the clouds, and the sun fell upon the capital, breaking into many beams.
I hope you are watching, Father, Jeid thought. I hope you are proud.
Laira let go of his hand, stepped forward, and touched the column. She smiled softly and closed her eyes. When she sang, her voice—passing through her crooked jaw—barely sounded slurred to her but high and pure.
“As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our column, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home.” She opened her eyes, smiled, and looked up at the pale clouds. “Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.”
Jeid smiled too. He repeated the prayer, a new song, a holy song—Requiem’s song. The others joined in and their voices rose together.
“Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.”
ISSARI
THE CITY-STATE OF ETEER—center of a civilization, a light to the world—lay charred and crumbled.
Issari stood upon her balcony, staring at the destruction. Aerhein Tower, the prison which had once held her brother, lay fallen, crushing houses beneath it. Blood and gobbets of demon flesh covered the city domes, courtyards, and cobbled streets. Half the trees had burned, and ash rained across the balcony, remnants of the fire upon the palace roof.
“Two dragons came to this city,” Issari whispered, the smoky wind invading her nostrils. “Three left. And here I remain, an heiress to a broken land.”
The demons too remained, still marring her city. Dozens had died in the dragon onslaught. But Angel, their queen, still crackled in the underground, moving through the city sewers, nursing her wounds and blasting flame and smoke through sewage holes. Hundreds of her minions still covered the roofs, gardens, and streets, screeching and cackling. Hundreds of women walked the streets, dazed, holding their growing bellies; the spawn of demons festered in their wombs.
Issari winced in sudden pain. The welts on her back blazed with agony if she even breathed too deeply. When her father had returned to the city—only three days ago—he had beaten her, whipping her back until she bled.
“I left you here alone for a month,” King Raem had said, voice cold. “I left you, my heiress, to rule this city, and I return to find it in ruins.”
She had not wanted to scream. She had vowed to remain silent under his lash. Yet as he had beaten her, and as her blood had splattered the walls, she had screamed.
A sigh ran through Issari as she stood here now, gazing upon the hive of devilry and ruin. She raised her hand and gazed at her amulet. When she’d pressed it against Angel, it had embedded itself into Issari’s palm. Her flesh had healed around the silver sigil—a slender man within a circle. She had tried to pull the talisman free but could not. It was a
part of her now—as much as her heart. The silver gleamed softly, crackling to life as a demon fluttered by the balcony. She closed her fingers around the amulet, and its glow faded.
“Forever I will be a bane of demons,” she whispered, though she did not know how one woman could fight so many. Even three dragons, blowing fire, had been unable to defeat Angel. How could she stop this? How could she save her kingdom?
She closed her eyes, trying to remember flying upon Tanin, the red dragon from the north. Like she did so many times, Issari again wished she too could shift. If she could become a dragon, she could fly north. To Requiem. She could join Laira, Sena, and the others. Her eyes stung, and Issari felt like she were the cursed one—lacking magic, plain, weak.
Do you like me like this, Taal? she thought. Pure?
She raised her head. Night was falling and the first stars emerged. The new constellation shone, shaped like a dragon. And for the first time in her life, Issari prayed to new gods.
“Please, stars of Requiem, if you can hear me, bless me with your magic. Let me rise as a dragon. Let me fly. Let me be strong.”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to shift. She imagined herself as a dragon—beating wings, roaring fire. Yet nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, she was a girl again, only a slim thing in a white gown, her dark braid hanging across her shoulder.
She left the balcony and walked through the palace, heading down stairways and corridors. When Mother and Laira had fled, Issari had been only a babe, but she knew the stories. To this day, guards whispered how Raem—then only a prince—had found his wife and child shifting into dragons in the palace cistern. Since then, few had dared enter that dark, wet place, perhaps fearing that the miasma of reptilian disease still lingered there. But this evening, Issari needed to see that place—to think of her family, to imagine dragons.
She walked down a craggy tunnel and stairs, plunging into underground depths, until she emerged into the cistern.
It was a towering cavern, as large as the throne room above. Columns supported a rough, vaulted ceiling. Water rose taller than a man here, still and silent. A cold place, wet, secret, and dark.
Slowly, Issari began to walk down a flight of stairs toward the water. When she saw the shadow ahead, she gasped and froze.
Merciful Taal . . .
Ahead of her, half-submerged in the water, was a dragon.
Instinctively, Issari reached to her belt and clutched the hilt of her dagger.
She did not know this dragon. The beast was black and burly, his horns long. He had not seen her, and Issari quickly hid behind a column and peeked. The dragon stood still in the water; the only movement was the smoke pluming from his nostrils. Finally, with a grunt and shake of his head, the dragon began to shrink. His wings pulled into his back, his scales faded, and a man floated in the water, bald and shirtless.
Issari slapped her palm over her mouth to stifle her gasp.
It was her father.
Slowly, dripping water, King Raem stepped out from the pool. Issari pulled her head back, pressing herself against the column. If he saw her here, he would not merely beat her again; he would drown her in this pool. She crept deeper into shadows, waiting for Raem to climb the stairs and leave the cistern.
But she did not see him leave. For a long moment, she saw and heard nothing. Then a loud crack pierced the silence, followed by a grunt. A second crack followed.
Issari dared to peek around the column. Her father was kneeling by the pool, chastising himself with a belt. Welts rose across his back, much like the ones he had given her.
“Diseased,” the king hissed. “Cursed. Shameful.” With every word, his belt lashed again.
Issari stared in disbelief.
Her father. The man who had banished his daughter and imprisoned his son. The man who had murdered scores in the city, those he called weredragons. The man who had released an army of demons to purify his kingdom with blood and rot.
Her father . . . was Vir Requis.
Issari’s eyes stung.
All those you killed, she thought, trembling. All that you destroyed. All this pain, all this terror . . . because you are ashamed. Because you are one of them.
Her amulet blazed in her hand; it felt like holding an ember. Issari took ragged breaths and raised her chin. She knew then. She knew what she could do, what she had to do. She knew that only she, here in this place, could save Eteer, could save Requiem, could return light to the darkness.
She drew her dagger.
Leaving her hiding place, she walked toward her father, daring not breathe.
He did not see her. He was still kneeling by the pool, chastising himself. Blood dripped down his back.
It will be just one more wound, Issari thought, staring at his blood. Just one thrust of the blade.
Her dagger shook and her heart thrashed, but Issari knew she had to do this. She would sin. She would murder again—like she had murdered the crone. She would save the world.
She reached her father—the man who had beaten her, tortured her siblings, the man who had to die—and raised her dagger.
With a sob, she thrust the blade.
Raem spun around.
The king gasped and raised his arms, protecting himself. The dagger sliced into his forearm, ripping flesh open. The blade scraped against bone.
Issari screamed.
Raem reached out, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. The blade clanged to the ground. A second later, the king’s fist drove into Issari’s chest.
She fell back, unable to breathe. She tried to suck in breath; horror engulfed her when she realized she could not. The pain bloomed through her.
“Father—“ she tried to whisper.
He grabbed her. He twisted her arms behind her back and manhandled her forward, his blood dripping.
“You treacherous whore.” His voice shook. “You worm that crawls with maggots. You betrayed me.”
Issari managed a hoarse whisper. “You killed your own father. You unleashed demons upon this world. You are the traitor to Eteer. You—“
He clamped a palm over her mouth, and she screamed into it. He shoved her up the stairs, his blood leaving a red trail. When she fell, he dragged her. Her hip banged against each step. She tried to fight, to punch him, to kick, but could not. Another blow from his fist rattled her jaw. A slap sent her reeling.
“Father, please!”
Blood filled her mouth. And she knew that begging wouldn’t help. She had stabbed him, almost killed him. Her life was forfeit.
I should have flown north with the dragons, she realized. I should have fled. Now I will die here, alone, afraid.
He dragged her down a corridor, past tall bronze doors, and into the palace throne room.
Once a place of splendor, it had been transformed into a hive of fire and brimstone. The porphyry columns, once pure and pale blue, now stank with serpentine demons that wrapped around them, oozing drool. Once a mosaic had covered the floor, featuring birds and dolphins. Now globs of rot hid the artwork, and demons rutted in the puddles, grunting in their passion. Once the throne had risen in a beam of light; now it rose from a mass of writhing creatures who bit, licked, and clawed one another. Angel herself now lurked here, clinging to the ceiling like a bat, drooling lava and hissing down at her minions below.
Issari gasped as her father tossed her into the chamber. She fell, landing in a puddle of rot.
“Demons of the Abyss!” Raem called out.
The creatures ceased their racket and turned toward him. One paused with another’s leg between its jaws. Others froze, still linked together as they rutted. They stared, hissing, tongues lolling.
“Here lies a traitor.” Raem pointed down at Issari. “She is yours to do with as you like. Mate with her. Eat her flesh if you like. Keep her alive for your amusement or kill her. But one thing I demand: Make sure she never leaves this chamber again.”
With that, he left the hall and slammed the doors behind him.
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Issari leaped up, raced to the doors, and yanked at the handles. Locked.
She spun around, pressed her back to the doors, and stared at the creatures. The demons approached slowly, grins widening. Angel detached from the ceiling, landed on the floor, and hissed like a viper. Her tongue reached out across the hall, an obscene tentacle longer than three men, to lick Issari’s cheek.
Issari raised her hand. Her amulet, embedded into her palm, blazed to life.
“By the light of Taal!” she shouted. “I banish you. I—“
Angel spat. A wad of dark drool hit the amulet, hiding its glow. With a scream, Issari tried to rip the glob off, but it clung to her hand, black and sticky.
The Demon Queen leaped toward her, crossing the throne room in a single bound. She landed before Issari, gripped her cheeks, and hissed.
“What a pretty thing.” She caressed Issari’s hair with a clawed hand. “So fair. So fresh. So innocent. You will be mine to break. I will mate with you, and so will all in my hall. And when we are done, we will feast upon you.” Smoke rose from her mouth, and she licked her lips. “You will live through it. You will watch as we devour your legs, then your arms, then slowly work our way up your torso, sucking up your entrails as you scream. But you will not die.” Angel sneered, holding Issari pinned against the doors. “Not until I say you can.”
Around them, the other demons howled, drooled, laughed, beat their wings, spewed their filth. Their faces spun, eyes red, mouths dripping.
Issari closed her eyes.
A dragon can defeat them. A dragon can blow fire. A dragon can fly away.
She took a deep breath, seeking a magic deep within her. She imagined herself growing wings and claws, rising, flying. Yet nothing happened.
The demons dragged her away from the doors. They slammed her against the floor, stretched out her limbs until they almost dislocated, and held her down on her back. Towering creatures like human vultures cloaked in red feathers leaned forward. Their beaks opened, full of serrated teeth. Worms crawled between their feet, as large as children; they were great leeches, Issari realized, like the ones Shedah had used but many times the size.