Her whip lashed again, and Vale snarled. Shani smirked, hovering before him, so small he could have snapped her between his jaws.
Burn her, sounded a voice within him. Crush her.
"That's right." Shani nodded. "Hate me. Try to burn me." She hefted her shield, and below on the ground, her comrades tugged back their bowstrings. "I want to see you try."
Vale growled, hovering before her between the columns. He could do it. He could blow his fire. He would take a few arrows, but his rage would drive him on, and he'd fly across the city. He'd charge against the ziggurat himself. He'd slay all those in his path.
As Shani smiled wickedly, Vale noticed something for the first time. Each segment of the column contained the piece of an engraving. As the segments piled up, they formed a sprawling work of art, a scene coiling up the column. It depicted Ishtafel and his many battles, his chariots slaying the giants, crushing the demons, and finally felling dragons from the sky.
Millions of dragons fought the chariots of fire, and we died. Vale lowered his head. What chance do I have, a single dragon?
"Move!"
Shani whipped him again, cracking another scale. Grimacing, Vale flew down to lift another stone—this segment showed an engraving of Ishtafel lancing a beastly dragon. Vale's claws, wings, and legs all ached, just as much as he had ached as a man toiling in the quarry. Another bite of the whip had him flying higher, carrying the stone.
But as Ishtafel is hero to Saraph, so does Requiem have a hero, he thought, placing the stone down atop the column.
One among them had escaped.
Ten years ago, he had risen—a hero named Lucem, a young Vir Requis, a maker of mortar. He had scaled the wall surrounding Tofet. He had fled to freedom. He had given hope to a nation in chains.
Only one in five hundred years . . . one that proved it could be done.
Vale took a deep breath, staring at the ziggurat in the distance.
If Lucem fled, so can I. So can Elory. I will do this. I will fly to her. He looked back at Shani. I will burn this seraph, burn them all, and fly. Fly as fast as I can. And if I die above the city, I will die in fire. I will die free.
"Faster!" Shani cried, hovering before him, her swan wings spread wide. "Down, worm. More stones. Go!"
Her whip lashed, slamming against his cheek, cracking the small scales that grew there. His blood dripped.
Burn her.
Vale took a deep breath, prepared to blow his dragonfire.
Horns.
Horns blared across the city, a magnificent fanfare.
Hovering above the columns, Vale turned toward the sound, and saw the ziggurat bathed in light. Fire blazed as two chariots emerged from archways on its crest like bees leaving a hive.
Dragon eyes were sharp, and even from this distance, Vale saw the banner fluttering from the chariots. An eye within a sunburst. The Eye of Saraph. Sigil of the Thirteenth Dynasty.
Ishtafel's chariot.
Vale swallowed his fire, forgetting about Shani, saving his flames for another foe.
There is my true enemy.
MELIORA
At high noon, the lords and ladies of Saraph emerged from the ziggurat to drink wine, watch the chariots race, and see a life destroyed.
On a balcony high upon the ziggurat, Meliora stood in her chariot of fire, forcing herself to take deep, shuddering breaths. She clutched the reins so hard they dug into her palms. Her gilded breastplate felt too tight—she had never worn one before—and her shield was too heavy. A spear stood at her side, ready to grip, a weapon she had never wielded.
A life ends today, she thought, gazing at the city below. If I lose this race, my brother will claim Elory, fulfill his desires, then when he's grown weary of her, crush and discard her corpse. Meliora shuddered. And then he will do the same to me.
She glanced over at Ishtafel. He stood in his own chariot of fire upon the ziggurat, lance and shield in hand, breastplate so polished its light blinded her. His four firehorses nickered and kicked the air, scattering sparks. Most firehorses, those used for daily flights, spread wide wings of flame. Not the steeds of the races. These ones, woven of fire like their comrades, sported no wings; these ones would gallop on hooves of brimstone, tugging the chariots over every cobblestone, crack, and pebble between here and Tofet.
"Race well, sister!" Ishtafel called out to her. "Like the javelin flies!"
Ishtafel seemed more alive than Meliora had ever seen him. His teeth shone in his grin, blindingly white. His hair streamed like a banner. He wore no helm, but a gilded breastplate enclosed his torso, leaving his arms bare. He was a study in beauty, an epitome of youthful vigor, the warrior from the legends, the hero countless women across the empire desired.
Once I too thought him a hero, Meliora thought. Once I thought him the greatest, handsomest, noblest warrior in Saraph.
Now, looking at him, Meliora saw not a deity of light but a cruel god.
If she lost this race, she would grow to envy Elory, perhaps. The girl would last a week, maybe a month in Ishtafel's chamber, her corpse then discarded.
But I . . . Meliora winced. She herself would linger for centuries in his service, have to birth his son, have to see that son grow into a tyrant, have to watch that son grind the weredragons under his heel. And should Meliora so much as speak a word of resistance, she too would find a bad fig on her plate—or a dagger in the night.
She forced herself to take a deep breath, to raise her chin, to square her shoulders.
So I must win this race.
She looked around her. Her chariot stood on a balcony that thrust out from the ziggurat, a thousand feet above the city, tethered to four wingless, crackling firehorses, beasts of living flame. It was a small chariot, large enough for only a single rider, fire over coals, crackling and casting out light and sparks. The limestone facades of the ziggurat sloped below her toward the city, and above her soared the palace crest, a platinum triangle, large enough to be a palace in its own right, brilliant in the sunlight, engraved with a massive Eye of Saraph, the sunburst pupil larger than a man.
Many seraphim flew around the palace, dressed in white and gold. Soldiers hovered in breastplates, helms, and sandals, holding lances and shields. Lords and ladies flew in flowing muslin, wheeling in the sky, wings spread wide, drinking from horns of wine. A million more seraphim—people of the city—stood below, spreading into the distance, watching from the roofs of temples and forts, from the decks of ships, from the balconies of homes, from the cobbled streets. Even the slaves below—collared workers and a handful of chained dragons—turned to stare toward the ziggurat.
In the distance, so far she could barely see it, the city gates led to the desert, and there—just beyond the horizon—lay the land of Tofet. There stood the bronze bull, the god Malok. There rose the golden idol Meliora must reach before her brother . . . or see Elory burn, and see her own life shatter.
At Meliora's sides, two young seraphim, cherubs with soft wings, raised silver trumpets and blew a fanfare. As the sound rolled across the sky, Queen Kalafi herself emerged onto the balcony. The queen wore a resplendent kalasiri, the white muslin inlaid with ten thousand diamonds that caught the sun and shone. Upon her brow she wore her serpent tiara, forged of platinum and inlaid with jewels taken from the fallen halls of Requiem. The queen spread out her wings, displaying the jewels that shone there, woven into her feathers, and she raised her arms with them.
"Children of Saraph!" the queen cried. "We bask in glory. Here in the center of an empire that sprawls across the world. Ishtafel has returned, and a new Edinnu rises!"
Across the city, the people cheered.
"The Eight Gods cast us out from the heavens," Kalafi continued. "But we have risen again! To celebrate our triumph, to worship the Eight Gods with our new light, we mark our victory with a great race—a race of nobility. Ishtafel and Meliora, children of the glorious, eternal dynasty, will ride with fire through Shayeen—to the god Malok, to eternal joy and victory.
"
As the people cheered, Meliora stared across the distance. There was no glory to Malok, the cruel bronze idol who sang as he digested his victims. There was no eternal joy in an empire built upon the blood and broken backs of slaves. But there was hope, just a sliver—hope to save a life.
Every life is a world, Meliora thought. Whatever gods might hear my prayers, give me strength, give me speed, help me save Elory . . . and help me save myself.
She stared toward the horizon again. She couldn't see Malok from here, her destination, only a glint in the distance. The bronze bull rose ten leagues away, a full thirty miles. Last time Meliora had ridden there in a chariot of fire, she had flown leisurely above the city, and it had taken her three hours to reach the land of Tofet.
Now, by the laws of the race, she would ride on the ground. Now she would race her firehorses as fast as they'd go.
Ishtafel leaned toward her from his chariot. He gripped the reins with one hand, his whip with the other. "Ready, sister?"
She stared at him, holding her own whip and reins. "Let's ride."
The cherubim raised their horns again. Silence fell across the land.
Even the wind stilled, and the only movement came from a flock of sparrows flitting ahead.
With a blast that made Meliora start, the cherubim's trumpets blared.
The firehorses bucked.
The race began.
With showering flame, with thundering hooves, with a roaring crowd, the firehorses galloped down the ziggurat's slope.
Meliora grimaced, clenching her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth would shatter. The chariot rattled madly down the brick facade of the palace, like a sled down a rocky mountainside. Her neck felt ready to snap, her head to fly off into the distance, her arms to dislocate. Every segment in her spine knocked together, and the sound was deafening, a horrible storm of her firehorses' hooves, of brimstone thundering against the ziggurat, of her chariot bouncing, of her body slamming back and forth. All around her, the crowd roared, and Meliora felt ready to pass out. She could see nothing—only fire, only sparks, smoke, streaks of color.
"Ishtafel!" the crowd roared, muffled beyond the thundering. "Ishtafel!"
Meliora could not see her brother. It was all she could do to cling to the reins, to remain in her chariot. The speed was terrifying. Meliora had flown in chariots of fire before—leisurely flights, the breeze stroking her cheeks. Now a shrieking wind, hot as the flames of the Abyss, stinging with sparks of fire, slammed against her face, whipped her hair, screamed in her ears. Still she rattled down the ziggurat, a boulder down a mountain.
"Ishtafel! Ishtafel!" the crowd chanted.
Meliora's firehorses galloped down a staircase built into the ziggurat's slope, and her chariot leaped into the air, slammed back down onto the rock, leaped again. Fire showered in a great fountain, and Meliora was tossed from her seat. She flew through the air, clinging to the reins, nearly falling out.
I can't do this. I can't. I can't.
Terror flooded her, and still they roared down the ziggurat, the horses screaming, the fire washing across her. The chariot tilted and Meliora screamed.
Her chariot slammed onto its side, nearly spilling her from her seat. Still they clattered, stormed, flamed down the ziggurat's facade.
"Ishtafel! Ishtafel!"
The firehorses kept galloping. They reached the bottom of the ziggurat and kept racing, pulling her across a cobbled boulevard. Meliora cried out in pain. The road scraped across her shoulder, tearing the skin. He chariot still lay on its side. Sparks showered. Fire and smoke engulfed her. She could see nothing but the inferno, hear nothing but the roar of hooves and her own screams.
She wanted to let go. To fall from the overturned chariot, to roll across the road, to die.
I can't do this.
"Ishtafel!" they chanted. "Ishtafel!" And among them, a single voice, high, distant. "Meliora! Meliora!"
She fell from the chariot.
She dragged across the cobblestones, screaming as the road tore into her, as the horses kept galloping. She clung to the reins with all her strength, the chariot bouncing across the road with her, still scraping along its side, showering flame, scattering coals.
"Meliora! Meliora!"
Dragging behind the galloping firehorses, she saw them.
The slaves.
They stood on roofs, in gardens, in construction sites. They stood among their masters, and they were chanting. Chanting her name.
"Meliora the Merciful! Ride, Meliora!"
She gasped in pain. Her blood dripped. Her skin tore. Their faces streamed before her, blurred into smudges, but she still saw their eyes. Their collars. Their hope.
"Meliora the Merciful! Ride, ride!"
Meliora screamed, shoved down her wing, tugged the reins, and dragged herself back into the fallen chariot. The firehorses kept racing down the boulevard, and Meliora thrust her hand against the cobblestones, ripping her skin, shoving the chariot back up.
She cried out in pain. Blood spurted from her hand, but she kept clinging to the reins. She had lost her whip, but the firehorses kept charging forth, and Meliora stood in the chariot again—bloody, cut, still in the race.
"Meliora, Meliora!" the slaves chanted, even as their masters shouted and whipped them. "Ride, Meliora, Savior of Slaves!"
She rode.
Sparks of flame roaring around her, smoke engulfing her, her blood dripping, her hair streaming, she rode.
She was heading down the Boulevard of the Victorious, one of the city's eight main arteries. Statues of the god Bee'al, a man with the head of a cobra, rose at her sides, hundreds of feet tall. Slaves and seraphim stood on the roofs of homes and temples, chanting and cheering.
Ishtafel rode in the distance ahead of her. He must have been a mile away.
Even in the heat of her flaming chariot, cold fear flooded Meliora.
She gritted her teeth. She clutched the reins. She had no whip, but she cried out to her firehorses, "Ride! Ride!"
The four beasts of flame galloped.
Meliora streamed across the boulevard like a comet, trailing fire—a creature of light, of heat, the wind in her hair, the sparks searing her skin. Her muslin kalasiri was torn, burnt, her skin red. She pulled her wings closer to her body, leaned forward, and charged forth. An immortal. A warrior.
I'm no longer the sheltered, pampered girl that I was. I am the wind. I am fire.
In her eyes, she saw starlight.
She saw birch forests below her, a dragon constellation above, marble columns in the distance.
The vision was so real, a vision of darkness and cold air and starlight, that she gasped.
I will fly like a dragon.
She thundered onward down the boulevard. Ishtafel still burned in the distance like a sun, charging across the miles toward the city gates.
Meliora narrowed her eyes.
No. I will not let you win. I will not let you claim Elory and break her body. I will not let you claim my womb for your son. I will win. I will fly like a dragon.
She reached toward the straps of her breastplate. She tore the armor off. She cast it aside, and it clanged onto the boulevard behind her.
She tossed off her shield.
She cast her lance aside.
She was not strong like her brother. He was nearly eight feet of muscle, clad all in steel, his shield and weapons heavy. She was weak in comparison. A thin girl, barely six feet tall, short among the seraphim.
And lightweight.
Clad only in scraps of muslin.
A spirit of fire. I am fire.
She punched the walls of her chariot, cracking them, tearing them off, remaining with only a floor and wheels.
I am fire on the wind.
The firehorses raced onward . . . and they were gaining on Ishtafel.
I am fire.
The firehorses charged.
I am the wind.
The chariot leaped over a crack on the road, flew through
the air, slammed down and kept charging forth.
I am dragonfire.
With exploding flames and a wordless cry, she reached her brother. The two chariots charged side by side down the boulevard.
The statues of the gods streamed at their sides. The city homes and temples blurred. They were halfway through the city now, charging toward the gates.
"You're looking rather ragged lately, sister!" Ishtafel called from his chariot.
Meliora snarled at him. "And you're looking as pretty as always."
Not a scrape covered Ishtafel. His hair still streamed like a perfect banner of silken gold, and his armor still shone. His whip of fire still flew, slamming into the four firehorses pulling his chariot onward. That chariot still crackled with pure flame.
Meliora's chariot, meanwhile, looked like a guttering campfire, its walls gone, its wheels scattering black smoke and sparks. She herself looked no better; scrapes and burns covered her flesh, peering between the tatters of her kalasiri. And yet her firehorses still charged, faster than his now, less weight for them to carry.
She inched ahead.
"You are falling behind, brother!" she cried and laughed.
Ahead of her, beyond the flaming manes of her steeds, she could see it. Still distant but looming. The city gates. Beyond them lay a bridge over the water, a desert, and finally the bronze bull, her destination, her triumph. The hooves still roared, a deafening sound. The chariot rattled beneath her, knocking her teeth together, clattering her spine, whipping her head up and down. But hope soared in Meliora.
I'm going to win.
"You're forgetting something, sister!" Ishtafel called to her. "I never lose a battle."
His chariot charged forward, then swerved and slammed against her wheel.
Flames exploded.
Meliora screamed.
Her chariot scraped across the road, showering sparks, nearly tilting over. Chips of coal and brimstone scattered, and fire roared.
Grinning through the fire like a demon risen from the Abyss, Ishtafel swerved again, slamming his heavier chariot against her.
Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) Page 14
