Crown of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  He walked onward through the nights, ignoring her, forcing her out of his mind. He thought only of Requiem, only of meeting Meliora again, of raising the dragons.

  It was a new moon, the land cloaked in blackness, when Vale finally saw the lights of Shayeen ahead.

  Vale stopped, the sight stabbing him like nails driven into his palms.

  The lights were still distant, a mere cluster on the horizon, but bright as the fallen moon. The capital of Saraph. The greatest light in the world. The City of Kings, home to Ishtafel, to those who had destroyed Vale's own home.

  Ahead of that city spread a dark land, enclosed by walls. No lights shone within this prison. No towers or golden domes rose. No lanterns hung over bustling streets. There in the distance, in shadows, lay Tofet, the land of pain.

  Vale grimaced. Pain flared in his hands and feet. Again he could feel it—Ishtafel swinging the hammer, driving the nails into Vale, pinning him to the platinum crest of the ziggurat. Again he felt his life ending, the agony of the soul tearing from the body . . . only to see stars, to feel Issari's hands upon him, to return to the pain. To fight. To face the battle ahead, the great battle for Requiem.

  Will that battle begin now? Are you heading back too, Meliora, with the key?

  He tugged at his collar, aching to get the Keeper's Key from Meliora, to fly again.

  He looked around him, struggling to see the cave in the darkness, the place where he was supposed to meet his sisters. Yet it was still too dark. He could barely even see the river; only when squinting could he make out the dark surface of the water in the jagged blackness. The landscape still smelled of the old fire, and the earth was bare and burnt.

  He walked slowly, and finally he came across it, almost by accident—the cave in the hillside. The meeting place.

  "Meliora?" he whispered, standing outside the cave. "Elory?"

  No answer came. Vale dared light his lantern, only for a moment. He cast its light inside the low, shallow cave. Empty.

  A sudden pang stabbed him.

  Here is where we spent our first hours of freedom, where Tash nestled against me.

  He lowered his head. Suddenly he wanted to forgive her, to turn back, to find her in the darkness, to hold her again. To stroke her hair, kiss her lips, feel her warmth, protect her from the evil in the world. To love her again. Yet as soon as those feelings surfaced, so did the memory: Tash walking away, holding the Chest of Plenty.

  Maybe she never truly meant to leave, he thought. Maybe another step, and she would have regretted it at once, turned back, resisted temptation. Maybe—

  A shriek sounded in the sky, cutting off his thoughts.

  Vale spun around and stared upward, clenching his fists.

  He saw nothing. Only the blackness of night. Another shriek rose, closer this time, and others answered the call—creatures in the sky. Yet he didn't see the fire of chariots.

  Standing on the burnt earth, he opened the Chest of Plenty. He placed the axe head inside and as much of the shaft as would fit, closed the lid until it banged against the handle, then opened it again. A second axe thrust out. As the screeches filled the night, Vale raised a weapon in each hand. He stared upward. He still saw nothing.

  "We smell one, comrades!" rose a feminine voice, demonic, so shrill it raised Vale's hackles. "We smell a weredragon! Sweet meat! Sweet blood!"

  Vale's heart pounded. Where were they? He could see nothing. Those were not the voices of seraphim above.

  There!

  He glimpsed them, just shadows blotting out the stars, and he could smell them—a smell of blood and rot. They spiraled down, eyes white and glowing, claws pale as bones. As they flew lower, Vale saw that they had the bodies of men and women, clad in black armor. They beat bat wings, and they held sickles. Each had four heads, cruel and pale and fanged. Only the light from their eyes lit them.

  "We smell it, Rancid Angels!" cried one, a bloodied woman; her four heads cried out together. "Another weredragon, a reptile! Kill it, drink it, eat it!"

  Vale cursed. He could not defeat so many; a dozen or more flew above. A part of him craved to swing his axes, to fight them, to die, but he had to live. He had to survive just a little longer, to deliver the chest to Meliora.

  He hurried toward the cave, crawled inside, and hid in the shadows. Outside he heard the wings beat, the screeches, smelled the stench of them.

  Another weredragon? Had these creatures seen his kind before, slain them? Had they . . . had they hurt Meliora and Elory?

  Vale crouched lower in the cave, praying they hadn't seen him, that they'd miss the cave in the darkness of a moonless night. He readied his axes just in case, prepared to swing them, to cut them down before they could enter. The Chest of Plenty stood at his side, his treasure to protect—the hope of Requiem, here, only his humble blades to defend it.

  "Down, Rancid Angels! There, in the shadows! We smell it, we see it, we will drink it!"

  The wings beat in a fury, the creatures cackled, and Vale tightened his grip on his axes, teeth bared.

  But the creatures were not flying toward him.

  He hissed.

  Outside the cave, he saw them—the light of their eyes glinting against their claws—flying away, past him, downward toward the valley.

  They howled and a woman screamed.

  For a second Vale froze.

  "Tash," he whispered.

  She screamed again, and Vale burst out from the cave. His body thought on its own. He ran, axes raised, and roared.

  "Rancid Angels!" He leaped toward the valley. "Come, meet my blades!"

  They were flying over the valley, swooping toward a shadow. Tash! Tash knelt there, her hair fluttering, raising her humble dagger. She met his gaze for just a second, and at that second, Vale felt nothing but that old love again.

  Then the foul creatures flew toward him. Their sickles swung.

  Vale flashed his axes.

  He knocked aside one sickle. He slammed aside reaching claws. They flew all around and above, laughing, mocking him. Another claw thrust down, and he knocked it aside. He leaped up, swung his axe, hit armor. A sickle slammed into his back, chipping his chain mail. They flew faster around him, dancing in the air, eyes lurid.

  "A meal, a meal! A weredragon meal! Chop him up, tug him out, pull him to pieces. Feed, drink!"

  Tash leaped to her feet, ran forward, and stood beside him. She flashed up her dagger as the creatures flew all around.

  "You came to save me!" she cried.

  Vale growled and knocked aside a sickle. Another blade hit his armor, cracking the rings, cutting the skin beneath. Vale beat the creature back with the swipe of an axe. "I'm not sure I saved anyone."

  "Then you've come to die with me!" Tash grinned. "I knew you still loved me. I knew it! It's very romantic, dying together."

  "I'm not dying without a fight!" Vale leaped upward, axe swinging, and managed to cut a creature's leg. Sizzling golden blood rained down.

  The beasts screeched, and their faces twisted, losing all amusement.

  "He cuts us, he hurts us! End this game. Kill, kill! Eat, drink!"

  The creatures swooped down together, no longer dancing. Pale hands grabbed Tash, yanking her skyward, and claws slashed at her. She screamed, blood spurting. Vale roared, swung his axes, knocked a creature aside, but hands grabbed him too, tugging him upward, and fangs bit into his shoulder, and he knew that hope was lost, that here—so close to the end of his journey, so close to raising the dragons again—here he died in darkness.

  "Vale, I'm sorry!" Tash cried, dangling before him in the creatures' grasp, bleeding. She stared into his eyes. "I love you. I'm so sorry, and I love you."

  The fangs dug deeper into Vale, and the claws yanked his axes free, and his feet no longer touched the ground. They were drinking his blood.

  "I love you too, Tash," he said. "I love you always, in this life and the—"

  Light blinded him.

  Fire shrieked.

  Air blaste
d against him, showering sparks.

  Roars tore across the sky, and Vale looked up, and he saw them there, flying in from the west.

  "Dragons," he whispered.

  MELIORA

  She roared out her fire.

  Her wings churned smoke and sparks.

  A white dragon, she charged forth, claws stretched out.

  To her left flew Lucem, a red dragon, fire in his maw. To her right flew Elory, lavender scales reflecting her flames. Three streams of fire lit the night.

  Ahead of them, the dark seraphim screamed. They dropped those they held—the bloodied Vale and Tash. Wings beating madly, the creatures stormed toward the dragons.

  "Dragons fly, dragons burn!" they cried. "The curse is broken, kill them, eat them!"

  Meliora counted eleven of them. She grinned, letting fresh fire fill her maw.

  Now they will see the wrath of Requiem.

  Her white fire streamed forth. A dark seraph screamed. The flames washed across him, heating his armor, melting his skin, tearing holes through his wings. At her sides, Elory and Lucem blasted their dragonfire, and the inferno blazed across two more dark seraphim.

  The demonic angels stared with their white eyes. Each one now sprouted four heads—the curse of the Living Creatures—and each of those heads screamed.

  Three of the survivors stormed toward Meliora. They were tall beings, seven feet of dark steel and claws, yet so small by her dragon form. A sickle swung her way, and she knocked it aside with her claws. She thrust forward, closed her jaws around a dark seraph, and bit deep, denting his armor. She tore out a chunk of flesh and metal, spat it out, and clawed the seraph down. Another flew from behind. She lashed her tail, knocking it aside, then bathed it with fire.

  She glimpsed her fellow dragons. Lucem shredded a dark seraph's wings, then swiped his claws, knocking the creature down. Elory flew in rings, spurting fire, burning the enemies.

  Steel flashed.

  A voice yowled.

  Meliora glanced up in time to see Leyleet, Queen of the Dark, swooping toward her. Before Meliora could react, the dark seraph landed on her back, and twin sickles flashed.

  Meliora screamed.

  The blades cracked her scales, dug into her, and her blood dripped. She bucked madly, struggling to tear Leyleet off her back.

  "I will ride you down to your grave!" Leyleet shrieked from all four mouths, lashing the sickles again. Silver scales flew through the night, and agony flared across Meliora.

  "Sister!" Elory cried, but dark seraphim flew toward her and Lucem, shoving them back.

  "I will bring you to Ishtafel!" Leyleet screeched, straddling Meliora's back, lashing her sickles again and again like a fisherman scaling a fish. "Your womb will be his, but when he's done with you, you will be mine to toy with, you—"

  With a scream, Meliora released her magic.

  She fell through the night.

  Above her, Leyleet tore free from her back, roaring with rage.

  As Meliora tumbled down, she glanced up, saw the dark queen swoop with her blades. The ground rushed up from below.

  Meliora summoned her magic again.

  She soared, blasting up a blaze of white fire, a great pillar like King's Column in the north. It lit the dark like a beam of starlight.

  Leyleet screeched, tried to dodge the fire, but the flames washed across her. The dark seraph thrashed, caught in the blaze. Her four heads bloated, tore apart, dripped their innards. Her wings shredded, the skin curling back to reveal the bones. Her armor melted. And still the creature screamed, again and again, an endless cry, refusing to die. All other dark seraphim fell, crashed onto the earth, lay as shattered corpses, and still their queen howled, clinging to her mockery of life.

  Meliora had no more fire within her. Her flames died.

  She landed on the ground, a silvery white dragon, splashed with blood.

  Leyleet landed before her.

  The dark seraph was melted flesh over bones. No more skin remained. No more eyes. But those four heads turned toward her, red skulls, and the jaws opened, and they spoke together, voices impossibly deep and distorted.

  "You will fail, daughter of Aeternum. Your dynasty will fall. You will never see Requiem, daughter of dragons. With my dying breath, I curse you: You will never see Requiem."

  Meliora released her magic, returning to human form. Amerath, the Amber Sword of Requiem's monarchs, reappeared at her side. She drew the ancient blade. She stepped toward Leyleet. She thrust her weapon.

  The blade drove into Leyleet's charred, exposed chest, slid between the ribs, and crashed into her heart.

  Meliora tugged the blade free, and Leyleet crashed down upon the hill, spurting blackened ichor. Her body fell apart, gobbets of flesh turning into beetles, bones melting into worms, and the little creatures fled into the shadows and were gone.

  The red and lavender dragons landed beside Meliora and returned to human forms—young, yellow-haired Lucem and thin, brown-eyed Elory.

  Meliora turned around.

  In the light of the burning corpses, she saw them.

  "Tash," she whispered. "Vale."

  They stared at her, hesitating for a moment. Blood dripped from cuts and scrapes across them.

  "You're wounded!" Elory said, rushing toward her brother. "You're—"

  Vale ran forward, scooped Elory into his embrace, and grabbed Meliora and pulled her close too. He squeezed them, eyes shut, holding them against him.

  "My sisters," he whispered. "My sisters."

  VALE

  With heat and light, his collar opened and fell.

  Instantly, before he could even rub his sore neck, Vale summoned his magic and shifted. Upon the dark hills several miles out of Tofet, he became a dragon.

  Earlier that year, he had become a dragon in Shayeen, chained and whipped, forced to haul stones. But now he stood as a free dragon, head proudly raised in the night. Fire flickered in his maw, illuminating his blue scales.

  Three other dragons stood before him on the hill: Meliora, a silvery white dragon with golden horns; Elory, a slender lavender dragon; and Lucem—the actual Lucem, hero of Requiem!—a long red dragon.

  Only one among them still stood in human form.

  Tash stood holding her collar in her hand; the Keeper's Key had opened it. Yet still she did not become a dragon. The wind ruffled her long brown hair and baggy pants, and her eyes kept moving back and forth between the dragons. The Chest of Plenty lay at her feet.

  Vale stared at the young woman.

  When the dark seraphim had attacked, why had he leaped out of his cave to fight for Tash—to die for her? Why, looking at her, did he still love her? She had betrayed him! She had nearly betrayed all of Requiem. He wanted to hate her. He wanted to hate her with the heat of dragonfire, to blast that dragonfire her way, to burn her, at least to exile her, at least to tell the others what she had done.

  And yet still that love for her filled him.

  She was afraid, a voice whispered inside him. She lost her faith in Requiem, too weak to resist temptation, to follow her old dream, and she regretted it. She would have turned around after another two steps if I hadn't stopped her. She's good at heart. She wouldn't have truly left. She fought bravely against many enemies.

  That voice inside him begged Vale to forgive her, and yet he could not. The hatred and love battled within him.

  "Aren't you going to shift?" Elory asked, bringing her scaly head down near Tash's.

  Tash looked at her collar, then lowered her head. "I'd like to. I'm just . . ." She glanced up at Vale and met his gaze, pain in her eyes. "I'm not sure I'm worthy of becoming a dragon."

  "Tash!" Elory said. The lavender dragon released her magic, once more becoming a slender, short-haired girl with brown eyes. She held Tash's shoulders. "Why would you say something like that?"

  Tash looked down at her feet. "I'm not a warrior. I'm not brave or noble. I'm just . . . just a pleasure slave. And . . ." Another look at Vale, then back at her f
eet.

  Vale looked away, ignoring her attempts to meet his eyes again.

  She still seeks my forgiveness, still seeks absolution before joining us as dragons. I saved your life, Tash, and I love you, but I cannot give you what you want.

  "All right," Tash whispered as if she had heard Vale's thoughts. She was looking at Elory, but Vale knew that she was speaking to him. "Let's try this magic thing."

  The young woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath . . . and gasped. Golden scales flowed across her like coins. Horns sprouted from her head, and wings burst out from her back. She flapped those wings, rose into the sky, and gave a spin.

  "You're beautiful!" Elory said, shifting back into a dragon and rising to fly beside her friend.

  The golden dragon looked down at Vale, maybe hoping he'd call her beautiful too, but he looked away.

  "Enough," Vale said. "Back to human forms, everyone. Into the cave. I see fire in the distance."

  He pointed. On the dark horizon the balls of fire rose from Shayeen, heading their way. Chariots of fire. Vale grimaced. Had they been seen, or was this a routine patrol?

  The dragons all returned to human form, raced toward the cave on the hillside, and entered. Complete darkness fell, and Vale dared not even light his lamp.

  "Were we seen?" Meliora whispered, kneeling at his side.

  "I don't know." Vale sneered. "If they saw us, we burn them. We fly out. We fight as dragons. We—"

  "Wait." Meliora touched his arm. "Wait, brother."

  Fire crackled and red light lit the land outside. The thunder of firehorse hooves filled the sky, and the smell of fire and brimstone wafted. Vale stiffened, prepared to burst out of the cave, to fight as a dragon. His muscles tensed, and he longed for the battle.

  His fists unclenched as the chariots of fire flew over the cave, heading into the distance. At his sides, the others exhaled in relief.

  "Lovely place, this," Lucem said, wiping sweat off his brow. "I forgot how much I missed Tofet. We're miles away and already dark seraphim and chariots of fire are trying to kill us." He shuddered. "Remind me—why didn't we decide to just fly to some nice little island, get rich and fat off duplicating coins and coconuts?"