Around him, the Vir Requis flew as dragons, the forms they always took in battle. They breathed fire and roared. Spears and arrows plucked the young from the skies. Their scales were too soft, their wings too small. They hit the ground, screaming, soon overcome with swordsmen who hacked them. Blood splashed. In death they resumed human forms; battered, bloodied, butchered children.
They take our youth first, Benedictus thought. He slammed into soldiers below, biting, clawing, lashing his tail, ignoring the pain of swordbites. They let us, the old, see the death of our future before they fell us too from the skies.
These older Vir Requis—the warriors—fought with fire, claw, and fang. These ones had seen much war, had killed too many, bore too many scars. Soon mounds of bodies covered the battlefield. The Vir Requis howled as they killed and died.
Our race will fall here today, Benedictus thought as spears flew and shattered against his scales. But we will make a last stand for poets to sing of.
And then shrieks tore the air, and the griffins were upon him.
They were cruel beasts, as large as dragons, their bodies like great lions, their heads the heads of eagles, their beaks and talons sharp. In the books of men they were noble, warriors of light and righteousness, sent by the Sun God to fight the curse of Requiem, the wickedness of scales and leathery wings. To Requiem they were monsters.
Today Benedictus saw thousands of them, swooping beasts of feathers and talons. Two crashed into him, scratching and biting. One talon lashed his front leg, and Benedictus roared. He swung his tail, hit one's head, and cracked its skull. It tumbled. Benedictus blew fire onto the second. Its fur and feathers burst into flame. Its shrieks nearly deafened him, and it too fell, blazing, to crash into men below.
Panting and grunting with pain, sluggish with poison, Benedictus glanced around. The griffins were swarming; they outnumbered the Vir Requis five to one. Most Vir Requis lay dead upon the bloody field, pierced with arrows and spears and talons. And then more griffins were upon Benedictus, and he could see only their shrieking beaks, their flashing talons. Flaming arrows filled the air.
Has it truly been only five years? Benedictus thought as talons tore into him, shedding blood. Haze covered his thoughts, and the battle almost seemed silent around him. Five years since my father banished my brother, since a million of us filled the sky? Yes, only five years. Look at us now. Dragons fell around him like rain, maws open, tears in their eyes.
"No!" Benedictus howled, voice thundering. He blew fire, forcing the haze of death off him. He was not dead yet. He still had some killing in him, some blood to shed, some fire to breathe. Not until I've killed more. Not until I find the man who destroyed us. Dies Irae. My brother.
He clawed, bit, and burned as his comrades fell around him, as the tears and blood of Requiem filled the air and earth.
He fought all night, a night of fire, and all next day, fought until the sun again began to set. Its dying rays painted the world red.
Pierced by a hundred arrows, weary and bloody, Benedictus looked around and knew: The others were gone.
He, Benedictus, was the last.
He flew between griffins and spears and arrows. His brethren lay slain all around. In death, they lay as humans. Men. Women. Children. All those he had led to battle; all lay cut and broken, mouths open, limbs strewn, eyes haunted and still.
Benedictus raised his eyes. He stared at the army ahead, the army he now faced alone. Thousands of soldiers and griffins faced him under the roiling clouds. The army of Dies Irae.
He saw his brother there, not a mile away, clad in white and gold. Victorious.
Bleeding, tears in his eyes, Benedictus flew toward him.
Spears clanged against Benedictus. Arrows pierced him. Griffins clawed him. Still he swooped toward Dies Irae. Fire and screams flowed around him, and Benedictus shot like an arrow, roaring, wreathed in flame.
Dies Irae rose from the battlefield upon a griffin, bearing a lance of silver and steel. Gold glistened upon his armor and samite robes. He appeared to Benedictus like a seraph, a figure of light, ablaze like a sun.
Benedictus, of black scales and blood and fire, and Dies Irae, of gold and white upon his griffin. They flew toward each other over the mounds of dead.
Benedictus was hurt and weary. The world blurred. He could barely fly. He was too hurt, too torn, too haunted. Dies Irae crashed into him, a blaze like a comet, so white and righteous and golden. Benedictus howled, hoarse. He felt Dies Irae's silver spear pierce his wing. He heard that wing tearing, a sound like ripping leather. It was the most terrifying sound Benedictus had ever heard, and the pain seemed unreal, too great to truly fill him. He crashed into the griffin that bore his brother. Screaming, mouth bloody, he bit down. His jaws severed Dies Irae's arm. He felt the arm in his mouth, clad in armor, and he spat it out, saw it tumble to the ground.
Dies Irae screamed, cried, and clutched the stump of his arm. Blood covered him. His griffin clawed Benedictus's side, pain blazed, and Benedictus kicked. He hit the griffin's head, crushing it. The griffin fell. Dies Irae fell. His brother hit the ground, screaming. His griffin lay dead beside him.
Benedictus landed on the ground above his brother.
The battle froze.
The soldiers, knights, and griffins all stood still and stared, as if in shock. Benedictus stood panting, blood in his mouth, blood on his scales, and gazed down at his brother. Dies Irae looked so pale. Blood covered his golden armor and samite robe.
"My daughter," Benedictus said, voice low. "Where is Gloriae?"
"Please," Dies Irae whispered, lips pale, face sweaty. "Please, Benedictus. My brother. Please."
Benedictus growled. He spoke through the blood in his maw, voice hoarse and torn. "You destroyed us. You butchered a million souls. How dare you ask for mercy now? Return me my daughter."
Dies Irae trembled. Suddenly he looked so much as he did years ago, a timid and angry child, a scorned brother cast away from his father's court. "Please," he whispered, clutching his stump. "Please."
Benedictus raised a clawed foot, prepared to strike down, to kill the man who had hunted his race to near extinction. Dies Irae shut his eyes and whimpered. His lips prayed silently and his blood flowed.
Benedictus paused.
He looked around him. No more Vir Requis flew. They covered the battlefield, dead. Their war had ended. The time of Requiem had ended.
It is over, Benedictus knew. No. I will not end it this way, not with killing my brother. It is over already.
With a grunt, Benedictus kicked off the ground, flapped his wings, and rose into the air.
Men and griffins screamed around him.
"Kill him!" Dies Irae shouted below. "Don't let him flee! I want him dead!"
Benedictus would not look back. He could see only the thousands of bodies below. I will find you, Gloriae. I won't forget you.
His wings roiled ash and smoke. Arrows whistled around him, and he rose into the clouds. He flew in darkness. Soon the screams of men and griffins faded into the distance.
Benedictus the Black, King of Requiem, disappeared into the night.
BLOOD OF REQUIEM
Available in the Kindle store for $2.99.
ANGEL FIRE
The First Book of Fallen Angels
by Valmore Daniels
Excerpt Copyright 2011 Valmore Daniels. All rights reserved.
Visit the Author at ValmoreDaniels.com
Quia ecce Dominus in igne veniet, et quasi turbo quadrigæ ejus: reddere in indignatione furorem suum, et increpationem suam in flamma ignis.
(For behold the Lord will come with fire, and his chariots are like a whirlwind, to render his wrath in indignation, and his rebuke with flames of fire.) -- Isaiah 66:15
Chapter One
I woke to a world of fire and ash.
Forcing my eyes open, I willed the fog in my brain to lift. My lungs screamed for air, and I opened my mouth to breathe, but thick smoke clawed at my throat. Gasping with th
e effort, I somehow managed to get my arms under me and raise my head up off the floor.
Through the curtain of hair in front of my face, my eyes were drawn to the wedding band glowing white hot on the charred carpet, but the roaring fire dragged my attention away at once.
The plaster walls of my basement apartment peeled and melted under the rage of the inferno. Crackling and snapping in protest, the cheap pine coffee table in front of me collapsed. The fabric and cushions of the oversized couch were entirely consumed, leaving nothing more than the crumbling black skeleton of its wooden frame.
Intense heat washed against my skin as fire chewed at the edge of the rug on which I lay; but my first thought was not for my own safety.
"Mom—! Dad—!"
Razor blades tore at my lungs, and I couldn't utter another sound. A dark blanket of nothingness began to creep over me once again. The thick smoke in the room clouded my vision.
A thundering crash from the other side of the room jarred me back to awareness. Splinters showered across the floor as the head of a red-bladed axe bit through the door. One more blow sundered the door and a bulky form pushed its way inside.
The intruder rushed at me, arms out. Strong fingers reached for my throat. Throwing my arm up for protection I let out a panicked cry.
"Darcy!" The man's voice was muffled through a plastic mask and ventilator, but I recognized it as Hank Hrzinski's, the fire chief. "You hurt?" he shouted. "You burned?"
Without waiting for a response, he hoisted me off the floor and onto his shoulders. Doing his best to shield me from falling embers and burning debris, he picked his way back out of the apartment. I faded in and out of consciousness. The smoke burned my lungs, and the jarring motion as the fire chief jostled me about almost made me retch.
Outside, cold air slapped at me. I sucked it in and immediately started to hack up phlegm and ash. Chief Hrzinski shifted me off his back and onto the front lawn as a paramedic rushed at me with an oxygen tank and mask.
Dimly, I was aware of shouting voices and darting silhouettes as a team of firefighters fought the blaze. Spray from half a dozen hoses disappeared into the fire consuming the house.
The roof cracked, and with a roar, fell in on itself.
I struggled to my feet. "Mom!" I screamed. "Dad!"
Someone grabbed my shoulders and pushed me back down.
"Mom!"
* * * * *
"I'm not your mama."
I sprang out of bed, disoriented. My sheets were a tangled mess around my feet, and my shirt was soaked with sweat.
The remnants of my nightmare faded as I blinked and looked around. The familiar walls of my cell were as gray and unwelcoming as they had been since the first day I arrived at the Arizona Center for Women ten years ago.
Looming over me was the dour face of Jerry Niles, one of the meanest prison guards in our cell block. For years I'd had to endure his crude jokes and clumsy innuendoes.
"But who knows, I could be your daddy," he added with a twisted leer that made my stomach churn. The memory of my dead parents rushed back and I had to fight to keep my eyes from tearing over.
I pulled the bed sheets up to cover my legs.
"What do you want?" I said. "You're not supposed to be in here before wakeup." A quick glance at the window confirmed that dawn had not yet broken.
"Warden said to bring you down to processing early. He wants you out of here before morning chow. Says it's better for everyone else who's left behind. Don't want to remind them there's a whole other world on the outside."
"OK, fine." I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Just give me a minute to get ready."
"I'll help you get dressed," he offered with a sickening smile.
I shuddered at the thought, and felt a wave of anger run through me.
Keep control!
"My eyes can see," I said under my breath.
I peered closer at me. "What's that?"
"Nothing."
"Don't give me that bullshit. Are you backtalking me?"
I gave a quick shake of my head. "No, sir."
My response was automatic. Obedience was something they drilled into you early. They told you when to sleep and when to wake up, when to shower and when to eat, and after a while, you surrender to it.
But I was getting out on parole today. I'd have to learn to make decisions for myself, and not jump every time someone barked an order.
I gathered some courage, raised my eyebrows and waved him out of the cell. "Well, are you going to give me some privacy?"
Like the strike of a rattlesnake, Jerry thrust his face in front of mine.
"Don't push me, Darcy. You're not out yet, and lots can happen between now and then."
I clenched my fists, bunching them under the blanket.
My tongue can taste.
Closing my eyes, I sat rigid as a statue, as if ignoring him would make him magically disappear. I continued whispering to myself.
"My mouth can smile."
"Gibberish," said Jerry. "Crazy in the head."
In the bunk above me, my cellmate shifted in her sleep and muttered something.
Glancing up at the noise, Jerry straightened and took a step back. Curling his lips in a grimace of distaste, he barked, "Get dressed. Like I said, Warden wants you out of here today, you little firebug. We all do."
I opened my eyes when he left the cell. He left the door open, but he remained outside on guard, just out of sight.
"I am in control," I told myself as I released the bed sheets from a strangle hold.
Blackened streaks marked the cloth where my fingers had grabbed the material.
Chapter Two
I stood at the bus stop outside the front gates of the prison and hugged my arms around my chest.
It almost never rained in southern Arizona, and when it did, it didn't last very long. Of course, today of all days, the rain came down hard. I had tied my hair back in a ponytail, and whenever I moved my head, the wet strands ran along the bare skin of my neck and sent chills down my spine. My breath puffed out like misty clouds of smoke in the crisp morning air.
I silently prayed for sun as I searched the road with haunted eyes.
A car raced past and hit a puddle. I skipped back, but a torrent of water splashed all over my jeans and sneakers.
"Damn it!" I yelled. I showed the driver my middle finger, and he showed me his before his car turned a corner.
"Jerk!"
Trying to keep warm, I pulled the collar of my jacket tighter around my neck. Looking up at the dark clouds, I silently cursed. At the same time, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a link between the bad weather and my release from prison. Or maybe I was just crazy and imagining the world was out to punish me.
Just as I spotted a ray of sunshine poking out between the clouds, the screeching brakes of a Greyhound startled me and I let out a yelp. After I put my heart back in my chest, I reached down and grabbed my duffel bag.
A middle-aged driver stepped off the bus as he covered his balding head with a cap.
"You getting on?" he asked, giving me an expectant glance. I nodded and passed him my bag. He opened a side panel and, with a grunt, tossed my bag in.
I took a step toward the door, but the driver cleared his throat.
"Ticket?" he asked.
"Huh? Yeah."
I fumbled through my pockets in search of the voucher while trying to ignore his impatient look. After a moment, I pulled the ticket out and handed it to him. He waved me on, and I climbed the short flight of steps into the bus . . . and froze.
For the first time in ten years, I found myself facing a group of total strangers. My heart skipped a beat, my lungs seized and nausea washed over me.
I felt everyone's eyes on me, angry and accusing. Did they know about me? About my past? About my affliction?
"Miss!" It was the driver. He made a shooing motion with his hand and grunted.
I tried to breathe, but anxiety gripped me.
> "We're on a timetable," he said in a harried voice.
In a way, that helped calm me. It reminded me that even in the big chaotic outside world, everywhere you went and everything you did was by some sort of routine, and I found that very comforting. Inside, every minute of every day is regulated, and you can surrender yourself to it.
Slowly I regained my composure and steeled myself to join the strangers on the bus.
From what I could see, the only two seats still unoccupied were in the last row on either side of the aisle; only one was by a window.
The bus driver closed the door and eased himself into his chair. He touched the accelerator and the bus lurched forward. I grabbed the overhead bar before I fell on my face and, cursing the driver under my breath, picked my way down the aisle.
Two elderly women stared at me with pinched faces. I forced my eyes ahead, but I couldn't avert my ears. The blue-haired old biddy sitting next to the window tried to keep her voice low, but I heard her anyway.
"I don't know why they let them on the bus. There should be a rule."
As I passed by, I set my jaw and pretended not to hear. I told myself not to let it get to me, but then her silver-haired companion clutched her purse tighter in her fat arms.
I barked, "You don't have to worry about your purse, lady. I wasn't in for robbery; I was in for manslaughter!"
They both gasped in astonishment, but I could take no pleasure in their reaction. I'd let myself slip, and that was something I had vowed not to do.
I walked past them, and ignored the sudden interest of the passengers who'd overheard me. All the while, I told myself to calm down. There was bound to be more confrontation in the days ahead, and if I couldn't overlook two old gossips, how was I going to manage to control the rest of my life?
I had a sudden urge to turn around and run back into the comforting arms of the prison. Instead, I reached the seat by the window, sat down, and stared out as the bus pulled off into the strange and frightening world of my new found freedom.
The Gods of Dream: An Epic Fantasy Page 36
