Crown of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  "Do they always make that sound?" he asked, grimacing.

  The guards nodded. "Yes, my lord. Many guards have gone mad, my lord."

  If their bite is as bad as their bark, Ishtafel thought, you're in for a delightful little treat, my dear sister.

  "Open the doors," he said.

  The guards obeyed, and Ishtafel stepped through the doorways and into the shadows.

  A great hall awaited him, large enough for an army of dragons to fly in. The cliffs soared at his sides, and above, the seraphim had raised a vaulted roof of stone. An oculus, small and barred, let in a beam of light, leaving most of the hall shadowed. The scream rose again, guttural, tortured, echoing through this craggy nave. A second scream answered it, high pitched, shrill as ripping skin. Soon more voices joined the din—laughing, screeching, moaning, howling. The cacophony rose louder than charging armies.

  Ishtafel beat his wings, rose to hover a hundred feet above the ground, and flew along the chasm. Cells had been carved into the canyon walls, rugged and barred. Within those holes he saw them.

  "The dark seraphim," he whispered.

  They tugged at the bars of their prison cells, hissing, leering, wagging their tongues at him. Too dangerous to be kept in Shayeen, they had been languishing here for centuries.

  Traitors, Ishtafel thought. Corrupted souls.

  They had been seraphim once, he knew. Among the mightiest seraphim, the greatest warriors, bodyguards to Queen Kalafi herself. Seraphim who had spat upon their rulers, who had rebelled against the Thirteenth Dynasty, who had suffered the horrible curse of Kalafi.

  Banished from the light of Saraph, the feathers had fallen from their wings. Those wings had darkened, hardened, become the wings of bats, tipped with claws. Their eyes were no longer golden but blazing white, the irises colorless, the pupils slit—the eyes of snakes. Indeed, aside from their dark wings, they seemed bleached of all color. Their long and tangled hair, their skin, the fangs in their mouths, the claws that grew from their fingertips, all were a sickly white. Like seraphim, they were immortals, and no lines of age marked their faces, and their bodies were still young, well formed, beautiful, forever youthful, but their souls were rotted black, and no more halos shone above their heads.

  Sixteen had rebelled against Saraph. Sixteen had been cursed. Sixteen had been imprisoned here, among the most powerful beings Saraph had ever known. Some called them the dark seraphim. Some merely called them the Sixteen. They called themselves the Rancid Angels—sinners of rotten holiness.

  "A golden one enters!" screeched one of the dark seraphim.

  The creatures hopped in their cages like rabid animals. "A king, a king! King Ishtafel enters our realm, murderer of Queen Kalafi!"

  Hovering in the chasm, his swan wings spread wide, Ishtafel ground his teeth. So the news of his ascension had spread here too. He either had chatty guards or these cursed creatures possessed a sight their uncorrupted brethren did not.

  "I have a deal for you, friends!" Ishtafel spread his arms open, spinning around to face cell by cell. "For too long have you lingered here in the shadows, blood of my blood. For too long did your wings wither, cramped in your cells. For too long did the corrupted sons and daughters of Saraph languish between stone and iron."

  "Too long!" they cried. "Too long!"

  Ishtafel nodded. "Yet who better than I, the son of Kalafi, knows of failed rebellions? My mother rebelled against the Eight Gods in Edinnu! And even the Eight Gods did not imprison her in stone but banished her here to build a new life, a new paradise. And yet you, who rebelled against the new Edinnu, which we call Saraph—you wither in cells."

  "We wither!" they cried. "We wither!"

  He flapped his wings, rising within the beam that fell from the skylight. His voice dropped to a whisper. "But I can free you."

  Silence fell, perhaps awed, perhaps scornful. They all stared, their snake eyes shining white. Their bat wings creaked, and their claws wrapped around the bars of their cells.

  Finally one among them spoke.

  "You want us to hunt."

  Ishtafel turned toward the voice, and he smiled thinly. "And hunting is what you crave."

  He flew closer to her cell.

  "Leyleet," he whispered.

  She smiled at him between her bars—a sly, hungry smile. "Little Ishtafel. The boy I once spanked over my knee now wishes me to spank his sister, am I right?"

  Leyleet. Leader of the Sixteen. Once chief bodyguard to the Thirteenth Dynasty. Her hair had once been golden. The curse had left it white as milk, smooth and so long it hung down to her hips. Her eyes had once been golden, the pupils shaped as sunbursts. They now peered at him, pale like bowls of milk, the pupils a black slit. Her wings had once been soft and feathered. They were now black, veined with red, tipped with cruel claws like daggers. Yet she was still beautiful—still alluring with the curves of her body, the crookedness of her smile, the mocking intelligence in her eyes.

  The memory returned to him—himself as a youth, only thirteen, peering through the lock of her chamber, savoring her nakedness. And her—already a century old, already so strong—knowing he was there, peering right at the lock, then grabbing him, striking him as if he were a child. He had never forgotten that humiliation. And he had never forgotten his lust for her.

  "If I recall correctly, you knew me as a man as well." He refused to look away from those mocking eyes. "You used to scream so loudly in my bed the whole ziggurat heard."

  She snorted a laugh. "You speak of me as if I were one of your paramours, a mere pleasure slave from the pits. And yet you loved me, Ishtafel. How you used to confess your love to me! How you begged your mother to let me be your wife! Oh, my poor Ishtafel . . . we would have made such a king and queen of Saraph. And now you are king . . . and now you are alone. The one who would be your queen fled from you. And so you come to me again, as you came to my chamber as a youth to gaze upon my nakedness." Her crooked smile grew. "Perhaps I need to spank you a second time."

  He flew closer toward her cell. She leaned forward, gripping the bars, and he wrapped his hands around hers. He brought his face so close to hers that their noses almost touched. Gods, she still smelled the same, even here in her prison—the scent of sweet sweat and sex, more intoxicating than wine.

  "What you need to do," he said softly, "is to fly out there, find Meliora, and bring her back to me alive." He pulled out a silken bundle and tossed it between the bars. It hit the floor of her cell and unfolded. "Meliora's nightgown. Smell it. Memorize that smell. And track her down like a hound tracks a hare."

  Leyleet raised the nightgown to her nose, inhaled deeply, and smiled. "Your sister smells like honey and milk and the crotch of a whore."

  "You will bring her to me," Ishtafel said. "Unsullied. Do this and I will release you from this prison."

  She snorted. "And you will return my halo, my swan wings, let me play harps and sing pretty little songs with Meliora in your pretty little palace?" She scoffed. "I'd rather stay in this cell."

  He growled. "Your curse I will not undo. You betrayed my family, Leyleet. You might have struck me as a child, but that was negligible compared to how you struck my family. My mother rebelled against the gods, woman. Did you really think you could rise up against the mistress of rebellion?"

  Her eyes narrowed the slightest, her first sign of anger. "Your mother lost her rebellion."

  "As did you."

  She screamed. She thrust herself forward, pressing her face between the bars, snapping her teeth, nearly biting off his nose. He pulled back just an inch, laughing, and she spat on his face.

  "Maybe I will bring Meliora back to your corpse, boy!" She tossed back her head and howled. "Maybe I will rule over that decadent cage of gold you call a palace, and maybe I will sleep in that soft, silken bed where you knew me so many times. I could not dethrone Kalafi, it's true; the whore was too clever. But I can easily kill you."

  He tilted his head, amused. "And yet . . . and yet, Leyleet, I quite
easily killed Kalafi. And I will quite easily snap that pretty little neck of yours. You bruised me once when I displeased you. If you displease me now, your punishment will be far more severe."

  She stared at him, and for an instant her eyes blazed with unadulterated hatred. Then she laughed. Her leathern wings spread out, banging against the walls of her cell, and her chest heaved with her mirth.

  "Do you remember what I told you when you were a boy, Ishtafel? When you gazed upon my naked breasts, coveting them, an awkward youth kneeling before a keyhole?"

  He nodded. "You struck a deal with me. You told me that I could have your treasures if only I waited, if only I did not touch another woman for five years—then you would be mine. All I had to do was wait."

  She nodded. "I have been waiting here for very long. And now we will make another deal. You will free me and my fifteen, and yes, Ishtafel . . . we will hunt your escaped sister. But I ask for one more thing."

  "In addition to your freedom?" He frowned. "I should think that a gift great enough."

  "Not enough. That would not be vengeance. I will bring you Meliora, and in return, you will bring me the bones of Kalafi, so that I will bury them here. Here in this cavern. Here I will toss them into the pit, and I will piss on them, and I will leave them to rot, while I return to the ziggurat and sleep in her bed, eat at her table, fill her pool with milk." Her eyes simmered, and her hands shook around the bars. "Kalafi's soul will be trapped here where she trapped us, while I and my fifteen live in her splendor. That is what I demand for Meliora's life." The dark seraph winked at him. "Maybe, as you sleep next door, I'll even let you peek through the lock now and then."

  Oh, I won't need to peek, Leyleet, Ishtafel thought. I will walk in and claim you in my mother's bed whenever I like.

  He pulled out a key and he unlocked her cell. He pulled the bars open.

  After centuries in prison, he expected her to leap out, to charge to freedom, to fly into the sky and scream and laugh.

  But instead she grabbed him. She pulled him into her cell. She bared her clenched teeth, gripping his shoulders.

  "You do not crave the sky?" he asked her.

  She sneered into his ear, her body pressed against him. "There is something I've craved more all these years."

  Her claws tore through his gilded steel armor, as effortlessly as a child tearing paper. Those claws nicked his skin, and her teeth bit his shoulder, and he ripped off her clothes, again seeing that forbidden flesh.

  He pressed her against the wall. She shoved him back, roaring, and knocked him down, cracking the stone. Their bodies joined, skin against skin, sweat mingling. They screamed in their passion, and around them across the canyon, the other dark seraphim screamed too.

  Finally she screamed with a sound that nearly shattered his eardrums, and her claws ripped his skin. She panted, spat, and pushed him away.

  "Now," she whispered and licked him, "we fly."

  Ishtafel had walked to this canyon alone, lost in his thoughts. He flew out, soaring high, leading sixteen hunters with dark wings.

  VALE

  "Tash, wait!" Vale hurried after her. "It's not safe."

  She spun toward him, holding up the golden coin. "Gold, Vale!" Her eyes shone just as brightly, and she bit the coin. "Real gold! And there's more."

  The young woman spun around, her silken trousers and long brown hair fluttering. She raced forward a few steps across the grass, knelt, and lifted another coin.

  Vale grumbled as he followed. The morning sun was already high in the sky, and the chariots of fire could return any moment. Yet instead of seeking shelter—a burrow between boulders, a hideaway under tree roots, maybe a cave if they could find one—the damn girl was running away from the river, seeking her treasures in the grasslands.

  "You're going to get lost!" he called after her. "What good is gold to us anyway? We're escaped slaves, Tash. Are you going to walk back into Shayeen—where every seraph is waiting to slay you—and go shopping?"

  But she seemed too excited to listen. She ran a few steps farther, then knelt again. She lifted another golden coin, turned around, and showed it to him. "That's seventeen so far. Every few steps I find one. Must be a wealthy man walked here, a hole in his purse. I'm going to collect them all."

  Vale groaned, trudging after her. "Why, Tash? For pity's sake, just one coin's enough, if we're going to find the Chest of Plenty. You can duplicate it along with the Keeper's Key."

  "But it might be a while until we find the chest." Tash knelt, lifted another coin, and whooped in triumph. "Oh, look, this one is platinum. Platinum is even more valuable than gold, did you know?" She bit this coin too. "I had to give up all my jewels as bribes, but I'm going to be rich again soon, Vale." She nodded. "I'm going to be the richest woman who ever lived, more than a queen."

  "And yet still wear an iron collar," Vale muttered, "unless we get back to our quest."

  As she raced ahead and he followed, Vale thought back to Tofet. Back in that hellish land, he would pray for an extra bowl of gruel, an extra few moments to catch his breath between forming bricks. Gold? What use was that? They had come here on a quest for freedom, not wealth. Unless . . .

  Vale thought back to his last night at home. When Tash had spoken of the Chest of Plenty, her eyes had lit up. She had been safeguarding her map for years, she had claimed, dreaming of finding the chest, of duplicating her jewels, of growing wealthy enough to buy her freedom. Could it be that . . . that Tash had come here not for Requiem's freedom but to fulfill that old dream?

  He looked up and saw that she had raced far ahead, entering a grove of olive trees on a hilltop. He ran in pursuit. If she wouldn't listen to reason, he would grab her. He would drag her back to their path. They must keep traveling east to the sea, not on this chase for useless coins.

  "Tash," he began, "now listen, this is enough. We turn back now and—"

  Movement ahead made him bite down on his words.

  Tash froze. Vale reached her. They both stared, eyes wide.

  A long creature walked ahead on many legs, the length and width of a lemon tree's trunk. Its segmented body was black but shimmered with hints of green and purple in the sunlight. A humanlike head grew from it, sprouting thick black hair and a long, shaggy beard. As it ambled forward, it paused, crouched, and expelled a golden coin from its backside.

  Tash gasped. "A goldshitter!" She began spitting and scraping her tongue. "And I bit those coins!"

  Vale would have laughed had the creature not spun around, hissed, and charged toward them. More hisses rose from behind, and Vale turned to see three more creatures drop from the olive trees. They too looked like long, segmented centipedes with dark armor, and they too sprouted humanoid heads with bushy beards. They bared sharp teeth and raised claws. For the first time, Vale noticed that several human skeletons lay between the trees, coated with ivy.

  "You led us right into a trap!" Vale said.

  Tash was busy spitting and scrubbing her tongue against her sleeve. "I bit it! I bit its poop!"

  "Draw your dagger, damn it." Vale hefted his spear. All around, the centipedes approached.

  Tash spat and drew her blade just as the creatures pounced.

  With a cry, Vale thrust his spear.

  One of the monsters leaped at him, mouth opening wide, dripping saliva. Its bulging eyes blazed under bushy black eyebrows. Its front feet reached out, tipped with claws, and Vale crouched and leaped sideways. His spear's blade scraped across the creature's scales, scattering sparks but doing the beast no harm.

  Tash stood beside him, lashing her dagger. "Goldshitters everywhere!"

  "Stop calling them that!" Vale said, thrusting his spear again.

  He aimed at a creature's fleshy head, but it jerked aside, and the blade once more scraped against its armored body, showering more sparks. The demonic centipede leaped forth, slammed into Vale, and locked its jaws around his shoulder. The teeth bit down hard, and Vale screamed.

  He swung his spear, scra
ping the blade against the creature's fleshy face. Blood sprayed, and the beast released him to howl. Lice rustled through its bushy black beard, and veins looked ready to pop on its nose. It reared before him, raising many legs tipped with claws.

  Vale thrust his weapon.

  The spear slammed into the creature's underbelly, pierced the yellow skin, drove through flesh, and slammed against the armor at the back.

  Vale tugged the weapon free with a gush of blood. The creature gave a last mewl and collapsed. As it hit the dirt, its bowels loosened, spilling their contents. Coins chinked into the grass.

  He spun around to see Tash facing two of the creatures, holding her dagger before her. One of the beasts leaped at her, and she tossed her handful of coins onto its face.

  "Eat shit!" she cried.

  The coins clattered against the monster, hitting its eyes, entering its mouth. Blinded, it reared, and Tash tossed her dagger. The blade sank into the creature, and it fell over, twitching madly, kicking its many legs.

  Vale ran, shoulder bleeding. He leaped over the thrashing creature, vaulted off its back, and soared through the air. Another one of the creatures was leaping onto Tash, lashing its claws, scratching her arms. Vale dived and drove his spear down hard. The blade crashed into the beast's back, shattering the hardened plates, and pinned the centipede to the ground.

  The creatures all lay across the hill, legs twitching, then falling still.

  Tash scampered back, panting. The creature's claws had torn her silks and left bloody gashes. She fell onto her backside and stared at the coins that lay strewn around her. When she picked one up, it disintegrated between her fingers.

  Vale knelt beside her. She stared at him, shivering, her eyes damp.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  He examined the cuts on her arms. Most of the wounds weren't deep, but one looked like it needed stitching. "Let's get back to the river to wash those wounds."