Dragons Lost

by Daniel Arenson

  "There it is," Fidelity whispered, pointing. "The Old Wheel."

  Cade followed her gaze and saw the tavern. It rose two stories tall, built of wattle and daub. Three chimneys pumped out smoke, and stained glass filled its windows. One sailor sat slumped outside the tavern, perhaps thrown out the night before. As he saw Cade and Fidelity approach, the man groaned and crawled into an alleyway, perhaps thinking them priests. A stray cat hissed on the roof.

  The tavern wasn't much to look at, perhaps, but Cade knew its significance. Here, within these very walls, the famous Releser Aeternum had hidden from the cruel General Cadigus. Here was the center of a great war that had liberated Requiem from darkness three hundred years ago. Perhaps here Cade could now plant the seed of a new rebirth.

  "The Old Wheel," Fidelity repeated. "To us, it's a place of history, of dragons. To most people, it's a place where sailors share tall tales, where wine and beer flows, where women can doff their stifling robes, and where priests do not enter." She grinned. "A perfect place to leave a book. From here, news will spread across the Commonwealth."

  Cade bit his lip. "Assuming any of these sailors and loose women know how to read."

  "Not all will know," Fidelity said, "but perhaps some old storyteller, long of beard and grainy of voice, will sit by the fireplace, reading from The Book of Requiem to merchants, sailors, and travelers from distant lands, and those stories will spread. The mythos of Requiem, told from mouth to ear, father to son. Sometimes such stories can spread faster than any printing press can work." She hefted the pack across her back; a copy of the book lay within. "Come."

  They entered the tavern, wrapped in their cloaks. It was a dusty place, and Cade imagined that it had changed little in the past three hundred years. The wooden floor was scarred, and a wagon wheel chandelier hung from the ceiling. Casks of ale rose behind the bar, and an aproned man stood there, polishing a mug. A few patrons were nursing mugs of ale; they raised their drinks in salute as Cade and Fidelity walked in. An old man sat in the corner, playing a lute.

  "This doesn't even feel like the Commonwealth," Cade whispered to Fidelity. "It's an old building from before the Temple, and . . . it feels like we're back in time."

  She nodded and a mischievous light filled her eyes. "We should stay for a while. Order a drink. It'll make us look less suspicious."

  Cade wasn't sure about that. He didn't like staying in any one place for too long, not as a wanted man. But before he could object, the barkeep raised his voice.

  "Oi, friends! What'll be?"

  Fidelity walked toward the bar, motioning for Cade to follow. As part of her disguise, she did not wear her spectacles, and she nearly tripped over a stool. Cade had to help her approach the bar. They sat on stools, and Fidelity banged her hand on the bar; she would have hit a bowl of walnuts had Cade not quickly tugged it aside.

  "Two spirits, good sir!" Fidelity said. "Strong rye." She glanced at Cade. "You can handle spirits, can't you?"

  "You're damn right I can," he said, never having drunk any.

  At least the sort people drink, he thought, not those they worship.

  The bartender placed two glasses on the bar, and they drank. The spirits burned down Cade's throat, so strong his eyes bugged out and he nearly choked. Fidelity seemed unaffected, and she punched his arm.

  "Good for you." She winked.

  He turned back toward the bar and raised his chin. The world seemed a little blurry. "Another round."

  They drank again.

  After his third drink, it seemed to Cade that his eyesight was blurry too, just as bad as Fidelity's. In the haze, she seemed to him prettier than ever—which was saying something, since he had always thought her beautiful. More people were pouring into the tavern for their evening dinners, and more drinks flowed, and the flutist in the corner began to play a jaunty tune.

  Fidelity grabbed Cade's hand. "Let's dance."

  He blinked at her. "Are you crazy?" He tilted his head. "Or drunk?"

  She bit her lip. "Drunk. Now let's dance."

  She tried to drag him off his stool, but he wouldn't budge. "I don't dance."

  "Just because you've never danced doesn't mean that you don't." She tugged him mightily; he slid off his stool and nearly fell. "Dance. Now. That's an order, young man."

  With a few drinks under his belt, Cade didn't feel able to object. They left their pack, the book inside it, at the bar, and they headed to a space between tables in the common room. Fidelity grabbed him and began to sway to the music.

  "Fi, there are people watching!" Cade whispered, face red.

  "So you better put on a good show." She grabbed his hands and placed them on her waist.

  Cade was thankful when a couple of young women leaped forward to dance too, then an old man and his wife. The jaunty tune soon morphed into a sad old song, and Fidelity leaned her head against Cade's shoulder, swaying with him. Her golden hair brushed against his nose, and when he tried to push the strands back, he found himself stroking that hair, again and again, feeling incredibly awkward and incredibly stupid but unable to stop.

  Fidelity pulled her head back and looked at him, eyes huge and blue, eyes he thought he could drown in. Cade looked away, his cheeks flushing, and it was not from the booze this time.

  She held his hand. "Come with me. There's another place I want to visit."

  They left the inn.

  They left the book behind—for one of those young dancers, for the barkeep, perhaps for a sailor or a singer of songs.

  They walked along the boardwalk and on the beach, and they kept walking, leaving the town behind them. The sun began to set, and soon the sounds of Lynport faded behind. All was sand and sea.

  "Where did you want to go?" Cade asked.

  She pointed ahead and her wistful smile returned. "Here. Ralora Cliffs."

  The cliffs rose ahead from the sand, overlooking the sea. Cade knew them from the books. Here in Ralora, the great King Elethor and Queen Lyana had fought a battle against the cruel Queen Solina from the south. Here in Ralora, the lovers Rune and Tilla would walk along the sand, their light shining over all Requiem. It was a place of legends forgotten, of legends they would resurrect.

  When they reached the cliffs, Cade and Fidelity found old ruins in the sand: a fallen porphyry column, a statue of a king half-buried in the sand, and old pots of clay and bronze.

  "Relics of Requiem," Fidelity said. She lifted half an old urn. Dragons were painted onto the clay. "Do you see? The red dragon painted here is Agnus Dei, and the golden one is Queen Gloriae. They were twin heroines who fought the griffins." She smiled. "I always wanted to be like them, to—"

  Cade kissed her. He was surprised at himself. He had not meant to do it. Yet one moment she was speaking, eyes bright, and the next moment he held her in his arms, his lips against hers.

  And for just a moment, she kissed him back.

  Then she pulled away. She blinked a few times. Her voice was soft. "I especially wanted to be like Agnus Dei. I used to draw her in my notebooks, and . . ." She looked back at him, then down at her feet. "I'm sorry, Cade."

  A lump filled his throat. He refused to look away from her. "Do you love him? Roen?"

  Fidelity sighed. "I don't know. Sometimes I think I do. Oh, Cade." She placed a hand on his cheek, and she smiled—and this smile was warm and good, no trace of hesitation or awkwardness to it. "Are you crazy? Or just drunk?"

  He couldn't help but grin. "Drunk."

  She laughed and lay down in the sand, and he lay down beside her. Night was falling, and Cade pulled out bread, cheese, and apples from his pack, and they shared the meal, listening to the waves, watching the stars. They talked about Requiem, sharing the old stories of heroes and villains, monsters and dragons, castles and halls of marble. Finally they slept, lying entwined in the sand, and they dreamed of dragons.

  KORVIN

  He knelt in darkness, head lowered, the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

  All is darkness. All
hope is lost.

  Korvin knelt in the bowels of the Gosharian mountains, this realm across the desert south of the sea. He could barely remember the soldiers of the Horde dragging him down tunnels, plunging deep under the mountains, beating him, shoving him into this cell. He felt like the weight of the entire mountains lay on his shoulders, creaking above him, ready to crumble and bury him.

  A chain ran from his ankle to the wall. The floor was rough against his knees, stained with old blood, some of it his, some the blood of previous prisoners. Craggy brick walls rose around him. Mad scribblings were etched into the stone. Some marks were letters, the names of men and women trapped here, while others were simply raw scratches, fingernails drawn again and again across the stone until they cracked. A stone door rose ahead, and dim light seeped around it, the only illumination.

  So here I end. In darkness. Chained. Broken. Half the world away from my daughters.

  "Bloody sacks of horse shite!" Amity was screaming, banging against the door. "Let us out, you puke-guzzling, hairy griffin bollocks!"

  Her shoulder was bruised from her many attempts to break the door. Chains clattered around her ankles too, keeping her in human form. Sweat dampened her short blond hair and clothes, and she panted.

  "I need to break these chains." Amity growled and slammed her fist against the metal links again and again. "Damn it, I can't shift with these chains on me!" With a roar, she tossed back her head and tried to shift again—she had been trying all day—only for the chains to tighten around her growing legs, shoving her back into human form. She fell to her knees, breathing raggedly.

  "It's no use, Amity," Korvin said.

  She growled at him. "Help me, damn you! Stop moping there like a flea-bitten pup and help me break the door, or break these chains, or break the walls." She bellowed in rage. "I'm going to kill them all! I'm going to kill every last pig-shagging man in this maggoty Horde!" She rushed back toward the cell door and kept banging against it.

  Korvin looked away. It hurt too much to look at Amity, to see her caged, hurt, waiting for death.

  As Amity screamed in rage, again Korvin heard it, the sound that had been echoing through his nightmares for fifteen years: his wife screaming, crying out his name . . . then falling silent.

  Korvin clenched his fists and closed his stinging eyes. Every time he had loved a woman, tragedy had followed.

  I loved you, Beatrix, the light of my youth, he thought. He remembered himself as a young soldier returned from the war, scarred, hurt, haunted. He remembered a young, beautiful woman, a priestess of the Cured Temple, healing his wounds, praying above him, kissing him, soothing him. Beatrix had nursed him during his long recovery, healing his wounds and soul, and she had loved him, lain with him, wanted to marry him. And Korvin had loved her too—his healer, his savior. He had loved Beatrix with every breath until that day—that day she had caught the Vir Requis child, the day she had slaughtered the boy, crying out in ecstasy as the blood stained her hands. The day she had screamed, vowing to hurt him, vowing to crush his life because he had left her, spurned her, saw the madness inside her.

  And I loved you, Mishal, my wife, he thought. He remembered the day he had met her, a young milkmaid in a village, how she had sheltered him on his wanderings, watched the stars with him, laughed with him. He remembered how he had told her about Requiem, about his secret magic, how she had vowed to never purify her children. And he remembered her giving birth to their children, to beautiful Fidelity and wild Domi, how they had traveled from town to town, fleeing the paladins, keeping the girls' magic secret.

  I miss you, my daughters. The pain clutched at him, forever lurking behind his ribs. Are you safe? Do you hide, waiting for me to find you?

  And he remembered the day Beatrix had found them. The day the High Priestess had laughed as she thrust her blade into Mishal's heart. The day he had fled, holding his daughters, his own heart shattered.

  Kneeling in the cell, Korvin looked up at Amity. She was still screaming, pounding her fists against the door, crying out that she'd slay every man outside.

  And I dared to love another, Korvin thought, looking at Amity. I dared to love again, and I will see another woman lost.

  Amity was only thirty-one years old, a whole fifteen years younger than him. Amity was wild, loud, and headstrong while he was gruff, laconic, and stubborn. But he knew how he felt, knew how she felt, knew what could have happened between them . . . yet again darkness had fallen.

  "Amity," he said, voice hoarse. "Amity, come here."

  She groaned, fists bloodied. Her eyes were red. She turned toward him and whispered, "I have to break free."

  Yet she trudged toward him, shoulders slumped, body bruised, chains rattling. She sat down beside him.

  "The abina said he'd feed us to . . . a beast," Korvin said. "What did he mean? Can we fight this beast?"

  Amity looked at the stone walls around her. "We'd have an easier time fighting these stone walls."

  "What is this beast?" He stared at her. "You've spent years with the Horde. Tell me everything you know."

  "I don't know much about it." She gulped. "I've heard tales of Behemoth, the beast of the south. The Horde executes its prisoners by feeding them to the creature. They say it feeds upon disobedient griffins, mighty salvanae who dare fly free, and even firedrakes caught patrolling the coast. They say it makes those creatures seem no larger than mites."

  He raised an eyebrow. "I've never known you to be scared, Amity."

  "I'm not! I'll face this beast in battle. None have ever defeated Behemoth, not in hundreds of years." Amity growled. "But I will."

  Korvin sat beside her and leaned back on his elbows. He stared up at the ceiling. "Do you know what The Book of Requiem says of the afterlife?"

  She snorted. "Can't read. Don't care."

  "I can and do. It says that great, celestial halls, woven of light, rise above the Draco stars, a heavenly twin to the fallen halls of Requiem below. They say that the souls of Vir Requis rise to those stars, that our fallen sing and drink wine there for eternity among our ancient heroes."

  "Then soon I'll be singing myself hoarse and drinking so much I piss my pants." She sighed and looked around her. "Unless they bring us a chamber pot soon, that might even happen in this life."

  Korvin couldn't help but smile—a thin smile that creased his craggy skin. "Who are you, Amity? How did you end up here?"

  "By saving your hairy backside, remember?"

  "I mean in the Horde. This life."

  Amity rolled her eyes. "Trying to get to know me better before we're both beast food?"

  He nodded. "I'd like to."

  She groaned. "Parents fought for Requiem. Parents died. That's all you need to know. After they were gone, I figured their life—hiding in the Commonwealth, spreading the word of Requiem—was not for me. So I flew overseas. I joined the Horde and vowed to fight against that piss stain Beatrix." She grumbled. "Thought I'd fight with the Horde, not die in their pit." She began to work at unlacing her tunic and tugging off her breeches. "Help me with these, will you? Stars, be useful for once. Grab my pants legs and tug."

  He frowned at her. "What are you doing?"

  "Getting naked, what do you think? Go on, tug my pants off!"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Did you piss them already?"

  "Stars!" She groaned. "You said you wanted to know me better before we died. To the Abyss with that shite. I'm not dying talking about Requiem or old stories of some fancy-arse heroes. You're going to get to know me the proper way, and don't pretend you haven't wanted this! I've seen how you look at me. If I'm going to die, I'm going to know you first."

  Finally she had removed her clothes and stood naked before him, all but for the chain that still ran from her ankle to a post in the floor. Her body was long-limbed, muscular, covered with small scars and bruises, the body of a warrior. Before he could say anything, she grinned and leaped onto him, and she began working at his own clothes, tugging them off.


  "Come on, old soldier," she whispered into his ear and bit down on his lobe. "You got one more battle in you."

  He closed his eyes as her hands worked at his belt, and soon he found himself naked as well. His body was leathery, hard, covered with old scars, and she straddled him and grabbed his shoulders. When he tried to speak, she grabbed his hair and kissed him, and he closed his eyes, and all he knew was the heat of her body, their sweat mingling together, and old fire. In her lovemaking, she was as wild as in battle, digging her fingernails down his back, biting his shoulder hard to stifle her screams, so hard he bled. Korvin had not made love to a woman in what felt like eras, and he had almost forgotten the passion of it, and now he surrendered to that heat. One last time to love. One last time to feel young.

  For a long time afterward, they lay side by side, drenched in sweat. He panted while she grinned, trailing her fingers across his chest, and she nibbled his ear again.

  They were pulling their clothes back on when keys rattled, many voices chanted outside, and the door creaked open.

  Firelight flooded the chamber, blinding. The roar of a crowd gushed in. The silhouette of a soldier stood at the doorway, holding a spear.

  "Move!" the man shouted. "Move, weredragons! The beast is hungry. The beast will feed."

  Korvin blinked in the light, nearly blinded. Thousands of voices chanted outside, and above them rose a single cry, deep and deafening, louder than the roar of dragons.

  CADE

  They had printed forty-seven books when they ran out of paper.