Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  Black smoke burst out.

  Blades thrust from his chariot's wheels, she saw. Black. Spinning. Shrieking. The scythes slammed into her chariot, tearing through the floor, shattering a wheel.

  Meliora screamed as one corner of her chariot hit the ground. As her firehorses kept charging, her chariot scraped across the cobblestones, gushing smoke.

  "Ishtafel, stop this!" Meliora shouted. "Sto—"

  His chariot slammed into hers again, ripping chunks off, spurting fire that flowed across her. She screamed.

  "Firehorses, ride!" she cried. "Faster, faster!"

  Her chariot charged forth with a new burst of speed. Scraping across the stones. Tearing apart but still storming forward at maddening speed, the world blurring around her. She was slowly moving forward, leaving Ishtafel behind, escaping his scythes.

  I have to escape him. To keep going. To—

  Ishtafel's whip cracked.

  The lash of fire flew from behind and slammed into her shoulder. She yowled as her flesh tore, as her blood sizzled.

  The whip flew again, wrapped around her wrist, and yanked.

  She cried out. The whip pulled her from her crumbling chariot, and she slammed onto the cobblestones.

  The world shattered.

  She bellowed—a hoarse, animal sound.

  Her chariot raced onward, leaving her behind on the road.

  No.

  Meliora snarled, yanked her arm free from the whip, beat her wings, and flew through the air.

  The whip lashed again, biting her side, ripping her skin. She kept flying, dived down, and landed back onto what remained of her chariot. She grabbed the reins. The crowd roared at her sides.

  The whip kept beating her, but she refused to fall again. She gripped the reins with both hands. She kept charging forth, her firehorses galloping. The gates rose ahead of her now. Only moments away. Massive gates, their archway tall as a temple, opened to reveal the desert.

  Only a bit of floor remained on her chariot. One of its wheels was crooked, swaying madly, screeching, casting out sparks. But she was still fast. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed, staring at the city gates.

  I am fast. I am dragonfire. I will win.

  A wordless cry pierced the air, rising even louder than the roar of hooves.

  A shadow fell upon her, and Meliora looked up to see Ishtafel flying above, wings spread out, blocking the sun. Beams of sunlight flared around him, and he plunged down, a swooping god, his lance tipped with light.

  Meliora stared, and for an instant life froze. She stared upon her brother. Upon her death.

  His lance thrust toward her.

  With a cry, Meliora swerved.

  The lance slammed down, scraping across her hip, shedding her blood, then driving into her chariot's wheel.

  The wheel exploded with a shower of coal and brimstone.

  Ishtafel soared, and finally the last remains of her chariot collapsed. The second wheel detached and slammed down. The floor crumbled.

  The firehorses ran free.

  Meliora's lips peeled back in a savage snarl. She still gripped the reins. Her wings spread out. Her feet scraped the cobblestones, then rose to stream behind her through the air.

  She rode onward, no chariot left, her body bleeding and broken. Still racing.

  I am the wind. I am fire. I am a dragon. I will win.

  His whip flew again, slamming into her wing, tearing out feathers, biting the bone.

  Meliora cried out hoarsely. Pain, white and searing, blinded her.

  The wind whipped her wings like more lashes. She slammed down against the cobblestones. Her knees tore, and she howled in agony. Through narrowed eyes, she saw Ishtafel charging onward. Leaving her behind.

  The city gates loomed ahead.

  Meliora tried to spread out her wings, to fly behind her firehorses again. She could not. She dragged along the cobblestones, clinging to the reins, refusing to release her horses, refusing to surrender, knowing she had lost. Every stone on the road tore through her skin. Her brother charged forth in his flaming chariot, leaving her in his wake. He streamed toward the gates, toward victory.

  I've lost. Tears burned as she dragged behind her horses. I've lost Elory's life. My own life. I've lost everything. I—

  Fire.

  White hot, screaming, streaming across the sky, fire greater than the flames of any chariot.

  A roar shattered the sky.

  Fire.

  A great pillar of heat.

  Dragonfire.

  From the inferno it soared—a blue dragon, wreathed in flame, jaws open, wings wide. A dragon of Requiem.

  Meliora gasped.

  Suddenly, it seemed to her that she saw Requiem—the Requiem of old, the Requiem that had existed centuries before her birth, the Requiem that Ishtafel had shattered. The beast before her did not look like a slave; he was a noble warrior, proud, strong . . . and charging toward her brother.

  Ishtafel cried out and raised his lance and shield.

  The blue dragon stormed forth. A chain stretched from the beast's leg, dragging a seraph overseer. Arrows rose from the dragon's back, and its blood seeped, but still it roared, and it blasted more dragonfire.

  The inferno crashed into Ishtafel, showering around his shield, and the prince screamed.

  Ignoring the pain, Meliora stretched out both wings, even the wounded one. She rose above the ground. With both hands, she still gripped the reins, flying behind her four galloping horses.

  The dragon slammed into Ishtafel's chariot, lashing claws, snapping its jaws. The seraph overseer on the chain, dragging behind the beast, flew through the air. Meliora ducked as the overseer flew above her, only inches away; the two nearly slammed together.

  Shani, Meliora realized. I know this overseer.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the blue dragon and Ishtafel's chariot of fire entangled together, blasting out light, a battle of heat and sound and fury.

  And then Meliora was charging onward, leaving them behind.

  She stormed out the city gates.

  Her firehorses pulled her across the bridge spanning the Te'ephim River, and there—there in the desert, upon the hill, rising from the land of Tofet, he shone. The bronze bull. Malok.

  Her triumph.

  Her firehorses raced uphill, and in the shadow of the bull, Meliora released the reins.

  She slammed onto the dirt.

  She glanced up, eyelids fluttering, and saw the sun reflecting in Malok's bronze hide, blinding her, searing, overflowing her vision, a field of endless white.

  You are safe, Elory. Blood filled her mouth and the light filled her eyes. You are safe.

  VALE

  We flew in the darkness, in the cold wind, the dragons of darkness.

  In his mind, Vale flew with them, with the old heroes of Requiem.

  We hunted in the sky, tearing them down, burning their wings.

  He could almost see those shadows and lights around him. He was fighting in the great war, the last war, the war of Requiem against the seraphim. With his comrades, with a million dragons roaring flame, he slew the enemy. He fought them hard—in stormy skies, in skies of fire, under the sun and in the shadows, in the tunnels underground. Killing the deities. Slaying the immortals. Watching his comrades die, his columns fall, willing to give his life in a great final stand.

  We were their greatest enemy. We fell with glory.

  Vale had been born in chains. He had never seen the great days of glory, the war of heroes.

  But Ishtafel, this shining demon before him, had fought in that war. It was Ishtafel himself who had led the chariots into Requiem. Ishtafel whom Vale's ancestors had battled.

  And now I fight with you, my forebears. Now I fight for your honor. To join you in the halls of afterlife, to sing forever in your mighty company. One last battle in our war.

  With a roar, he blasted forth his flames, showering the Destroyer in his chariot. His claws scratched at the seraph's armor, and his jaws sl
ammed against his shield. Arrows pierced his back, and seraphim swooped from above, but still Vale roared, still he fought.

  To kill Ishtafel.

  To redeem Requiem.

  To die in fire.

  And that fire roared—his own fire and the fire of the chariot. It burned him. The arrows cut him. Thousands of seraphim descended from the sky—as they had in the days of old, falling from their cursed realm above the stars, falling upon Requiem.

  Their lances cut him.

  Ishtafel rose in his chariot, charred, laughing, thrusting his own lance.

  The blade cut Vale.

  And he roared.

  As the arrows and spears shattered his scales, he roared for old Requiem, for his sisters, for his slain mother, for his enslaved father, for a nation chained. For Requiem.

  "For Requiem!" he howled, wings spread wide, blood falling, fire streaming. "Remember Requiem!"

  And across the City of Kings, they answered his call.

  They wore no armor. They bore no weapons. Their collars kept their magic at bay, but their souls still shone with starlight. They stood on the roofs, on the roads, on mountains, in deserts, across an empire, and they raised their hands to the sky, and they called out with him, their voices rising as one.

  "Remember Requiem! Remember Requiem!"

  The voices of slaves in chains. The voices of a proud nation, an ancient magic.

  For Requiem.

  His fire roared in a pyre, and Ishtafel's lance drove into his wing, and Vale fell.

  He fell from the skies of the Requiem that had been.

  He fell through skies of dragons.

  He fell under the light of his stars, the Draco constellation, under the gaze of the dragon's eye. Issari's star. The lodestar of his people. Of his soul.

  He slammed against the cobblestones, and the pain was too great. The pain drove his magic out of him, like a punch to the chest drives the air from the lungs.

  The visions vanished.

  His magic faded.

  He lay on the ground, a human again.

  Firelight blinded him, and the seraphim swooped down, cutting, kicking, shouting, laughing. Their chains swung around him. Their manacles snapped around his limbs. Shani herself snapped his collar around his neck again.

  "Fight me!" Vale cried. "Kill me! Let me die in battle."

  They hoisted him onto his feet, and Vale roared, tried to summon his magic, to become a dragon again, but he was collared once more, his magic lost.

  "Hold him up," Ishtafel said, stepping off his chariot. "Bring him before me."

  Vale's eyelids fluttered. Blood covered him. He struggled to remain conscious. Shani gripped his arm, digging her fingers into an open wound, manhandling him forward. Other seraphim goaded him with spears. They dragged him across the cobblestones, wrapped in chains, bringing him before the prince.

  Ishtafel stared at him—more than a foot taller, twice as heavy, but no longer fair. His armor was charred, and welts rose across his bare arms—the burns of dragonfire. Blood seeped down his cheek from a claw's strike.

  They are deities of light, immortals, godly creatures, Vale thought. But I hurt one. They can be hurt. They can be killed.

  "Do you cower from battle?" Vale spat blood. "Will you not fight me, chariot to dragon, man to man?"

  "Kneel before your master!" Shani shouted. She twisted Vale's arm and kicked the back of his knee, forcing him to kneel.

  Ishtafel stared down at him, ignoring his wound. "Dragon? Man?" He shook his head. "I see only a slave . . . and slaves are not worthy of death in battle. No. Yours will be a far more amusing death." A grin spread across the prince's face. "Load him onto the chariot! We will nail him onto the ziggurat's crest, and we will drink wine as the vultures drink his blood."

  The seraphim roared with joy. They tugged Vale up. They shoved him into the chariot, kicking his back, and all he felt was the pain, and all he saw was the fire.

  ELORY

  Elory huddled in the shadows of the pleasure pit, fear coiling inside her like an icy serpent.

  "You're not paying attention!" Tash glared at her. "I'm trying to teach you how to seduce a man, yet you're just staring at the ceiling. Eyes to me!"

  Yet how could Elory focus on her lessons? As always, the pleasure pit was a den of shadows, candlelight, and the purple smoke that swirled from the hookahs of bubbling hintan. The other pleasure slaves lounged on rugs and piles of pillows, eyes glazed, some giggling, others barely able to do more than drool.

  "Focus!" Tash said. Anger filled her brown eyes, but fear too. The slave—ruler of the pleasure pit—knew that if Elory failed to learn, failed to please Ishtafel, it would be both of them burned in the bull. "Now, show me what you've learned. Seduce me with your eyes alone. Flirt with those lashes!"

  Elory tried, demurely lowering her gaze as Tash had taught her, then glancing up, blushing, and looking away with a shy smile. But her movements felt forced, fake, clumsy. How could she possibly focus on seducing Tash now when above her, upon the surface of the city, the chariots raced, and her fate was being decided?

  Meliora could help but only if she won. If Ishtafel beat her . . .

  Elory had the feeling that all the batting eyelashes, sweet caresses, and gentle kisses Tash had taught her would not save her from Ishtafel's wrath for long.

  "You look like an alley cat who stumbled across a bulldog." Tash flicked Elory's forehead. "Think! Focus! We've only a few days left of training, and I'm not sending you up to the prince like this. I—"

  The door slammed open across the pit.

  Tash and Elory spun around. The other slaves raised their heads, blinked feebly, then flumped back onto their beds.

  Two seraphim stepped into the smoky den—palace guards in breastplates, helmets hiding their faces, only their glowing eyes visible. They wore the Eye of Saraph upon their shields—the personal guards of the dynasty.

  Elory felt the blood drain from her face.

  She knew at once: the race was over.

  "We seek the slave named Elory," one seraph said. "Who among you is Elory of Tofet?"

  Elory stared, frozen in terror, unable to even breathe.

  Tash, however, leaped to her feet, placed her hands on her hips, and glared at the seraphim. "It hasn't been a week yet!" She stomped forward, stepping over smoking slaves, and came to stand before the seraphim—two feet shorter, half their width, but raising her chin high. "I was given a week to train her. We're not ready. We—"

  The seraph struck her with the shaft of his spear.

  Tash cried out, lip bloody, and stumbled to the ground. She lay, staring up in horror and rage, blood dripping.

  "If you don't shut your mouth, we bash it." The seraph spat. "Don't think because you were given dominion over this den of hintan that you're anything but a slave." The seraphim marched over the fallen Tash. "Elory! We seek Elory. Step forward, slave."

  Elory rose to her feet. Her heart thumped in her chest, and her legs felt weak.

  It's time. One of them won. One of them will claim me.

  "Is the race over?" she whispered, stepping toward the seraphim. "I'm Elory. Who won?"

  "Silence!" The seraph who had struck Tash reached toward her. "To me."

  Sweat on her brow, Elory stepped closer, knelt, and tried to help the fallen Tash. Both guards, however, grabbed Elory's arms and yanked her forward. "Come with us."

  She gave Tash a last look. The bloodied slave stared back, eyes huge with fear, and then the guards dragged Elory out of the pit.

  As they climbed the stairs, Elory's mind raced as surely as the chariots. Who did these guards serve—Meliora or Ishtafel? Would she find haven with her half sister, a Princess of Saraph with the blood and kindness of Requiem within her, or was Elory doomed to suffer Ishtafel's cruelty—cruelty she might be unable to hold at bay even with her charms and seduction?

  They emerged from the belly of the earth. They walked along a promenade, its northern side lined with columns, revealing the
city. This was the place Elory had once walked at night, contemplating escape. Now sunlight fell through the portico, and the city roared.

  Elory couldn't see far past the gardens, but she glimpsed people standing on roofs, and she heard a great cry from thousands. Chariots of fire flew above, and seraphim circled in the sky.

  "Slay the beast!" people cried. "Slay the dragon!"

  Before Elory could see or hear more, the guards dragged her away from the corridor and onto another staircase. They kept climbing through the ziggurat, floor after floor, the guards silent, and still the chants rose outside the window.

  "Slay the dragon, slay the dragon!"

  The thousands of voices cried as one.

  They're killing one of us. Elory shuddered. Someone who rebelled. A dragon who stood against the masters. She stared out into the sky as they passed a window, staring north—north toward the land of Tofet, toward Requiem, a land of pain and a land of memory.

  Ease his pain, stars of my forebears, she silently prayed. If a dragon is to die, let him die easy, and let his soul rise to your light.

  Finally, when Elory was winded and her legs ached, they reached a golden doorway near the ziggurat's crest.

  Over the past few days, Elory had been to both Ishtafel's and Meliora's chambers. She could not remember whose door this was, and her heart galloped, and sweat trickled down her back.

  "Go kneel before your new owner!" the guards said.

  The door opened.

  Elory stepped into the chamber . . . and fell to her knees. She lowered her head. Her breath shook, and her tears flowed.

  Thank the stars. A sob escaped her. Thank the stars of Requiem.

  Before her in the chamber of gold and jewels stood Princess Meliora.

  "You won," Elory whispered. "You won, my lady. You won the race."

  Welts, blisters, and cuts covered Meliora. A bruise stretched across her cheek, and the tips of her hair were burnt. Her kalasiri was tattered and charred. Perhaps worst of all, one of her wings was cloven, bleeding, missing many of its feathers. But despite her sordid condition, the princess stepped toward Elory and pulled her into her arms.