Dragons Reborn

by Daniel Arenson

  Even Behemoth, perhaps not as mindless as Amity had thought, grunted and slumped down with a thud, shaking the cavern.

  Amity stood on the ledge, dripping blood and sweat, and gazed upon her people. Her grin widened, her jaw clenched, and her fingers tightened around her sword's hilt.

  I came here begging for aid, she thought. I found an empire to lead.

  "And this empire will fly toward you, Beatrix," she whispered. "The might of my Horde will descend upon your Cured Temple. Your head is next."

  CADE

  He knelt in the chamber, dizzy, as the world collapsed around him.

  High Priestess Beatrix, sovereign of the Cured Temple, ruler of the Commonwealth, tyrant and monster . . . my mother. Cade's eyes stung, and he could barely breathe. Mercy Deus, Paladin of the Spirit, the slayer of thousands . . . my sister.

  He stared up, eyes burning. He knelt in the Holy of Holies, the center of the Cured Temple and the heart of its faith. Marble tiles spread across the floor, and the round walls soared hundreds of feet tall, formed of white bricks. It felt like kneeling in the alabaster well of a god. In the center of this chamber, like a bone inside a hollow limb, soared King's Column, the most ancient artifact of Requiem, the pillar King Aeternum himself had raised thousands of years ago.

  Standing above him were those who would see this ancient column fall.

  High Priestess Beatrix smiled thinly, and her hand reached out to smooth Cade's hair. Yet there was no warmth to her pale blue eyes, no humanity to her face; it could have been a face carved from the same marble of the column. She was as pale as the chamber around her. Her robes were the purest white, her skin seemed bloodless, and her hair was the color of dry bones.

  Beside her stood Mercy Deus, her daughter and heiress to the temple. While her mother was a priestess, Mercy had chosen the life of a paladin, a holy warrior of the Spirit. Rather than robes, she wore armor of white steel plates, a tillvine blossom—sigil of the Temple—engraved upon her breast. Like all paladins and priests, she shaved the left side of her head. On the right side, her hair was white, bleached to mimic the steel plates she wore. But unlike her mother, Mercy showed emotion in her eyes; her blue eyes were full of shock and loathing.

  "What?" Mercy whispered, turning toward her mother. She seemed barely able to push the words past her lips. "This disease-ridden, pathetic weredragon . . . is my brother?"

  Beatrix nodded and stroked Cade's cheek. Her eyes never left Cade, even as she spoke to Mercy. "Your father stole him. He tried to hide him. But Cade's back now. He's back in our family, and we will cure his disease. We will cure him now in the sight of King's Column." The High Priestess turned toward Mercy. "Bring forth tillvine. I will perform the purification myself."

  Those words shocked Cade out of his paralysis. He rose to his feet, his chains clattering. He glared at the High Priestess.

  "Enough." His chest shook, but he managed to stare steadily into those cold blue eyes. "This is madness. I've heard enough of your lies."

  "The truth stands before you," Beatrix said. "Look at your sister. Her face is your face."

  Cade turned to stare at Mercy. She stared back, eyes narrowed, lips tight. Cade tried to ignore her bleached hair, the anger in her eyes, to focus on her face alone . . . and he saw his face.

  "Oh stars of Requiem," he whispered.

  Beatrix nodded. "You are my son, Cade. You have a birthmark, shaped as a bean, on the inside of your left thigh, do you not? You have a little scar on your head, hidden under your hair, right above your ear. How else would I know, if I had not held you as a babe, nursed you, and—"

  "Enough," Cade said again. He balled his hands into fists. His voice shook. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you were my mother. Maybe this was my family." His eyes burned and his knees shook. "That doesn't matter. None of it does. Derin and Tisha raised me. They were those who loved me, whom I loved." He spun toward Mercy. "And you murdered them, Mercy." He turned back toward Beatrix. "And you ordered them murdered, no doubt, like the countless others you killed, all those who refused the purification. I refuse it too." He raised his chin and forced himself to keep speaking, though his voice shook. "You're going to have to murder me too then. Your own son."

  Beatrix's face changed. It was a subtle change—a deepening of the grooves alongside her mouth, a slight tightening of the lips, a kindling of fire in her eyes.

  "Do not think," the High Priestess said softly, "that I would hesitate to slay you. But you would not die easily, boy. You would die screaming. In agony. Have you ever seen my men execute a prisoner? They will slice you open and pull out your entrails, but not before they cut off your manhood and burn it before you. Emasculated and disemboweled, they will hang you upon the city walls, leaving you to slowly die. It can take hours. Days. If you defy me, that will be your fate, my beloved son."

  A chill washed Cade. Only a moment ago, she had stroked his hair, spoken to him as a mother. Now she threatened mutilation and death?

  "You're mad," he whispered.

  Mercy stepped forth, grabbed Cade's arm, and twisted it behind his back. She drove her foot into the back of his knee, forcing him to kneel.

  "I'll force-feed him the tillvine!" Mercy cried. "I'll stuff it into his impudent mouth!"

  "No." Beatrix shook her head. "He's not a babe. He has known the magic all his life. He must relinquish it willingly. He must choose to devote himself to the Spirit, to the coming Falling." She knelt before Cade, held his head in her hands, and stared at him. "My son, my precious son . . . I will have you become a great paladin like Mercy, devoted to our cause. This is a fate you must choose for yourself, to abandon the disease inside you, to surrender your will to the Spirit."

  "Or die in agony," Cade said, voice dry. "What kind of choice is that?"

  "Still a choice. More than what Mercy offers you." Beatrix kissed his forehead. "I will return you to your cell now, where I want you to linger in darkness, in thought. I want you to think about the pain refusing me will bring you. I want you to think about the glory of the Spirit, the only one who can save you from that pain. You have until noon tomorrow to make your decision, son—to lose your magic . . . or to lose your life."

  Mercy grabbed his arms, yanked him to his feet, and manhandled him toward the door. They left the Holy of Holies.

  Cade's chains dragged and his blood dripped across the jeweled marble floors of the Cured Temple. They walked through halls of splendor—the floors a mosaic of precious metals, the columns gilded, the walls painted with pastel murals, and the ceiling a masterwork of jewels that glittered like stars. Mercy dragged him through these riches, then down into the craggy, dark dungeons, down into the chasm where men screamed in cells, tortured, broken.

  "You'll soon break too," Mercy whispered into his ear, teeth clenched. "Look at them, Cade. This will be your fate."

  She dragged him along a hallway lined with cells. Inside each cell, Cade saw the prisoners of the Cured Temple. In one cell, a man hung from chains, flayed alive, bleeding and weeping and begging for death. In another cell, a woman prayed feverishly as rats fed upon her, eating her alive. In a third cell, children hung from the wall, whipped and beaten, slowly dying. Aboveground, the Cured Temple displayed its glory; here under the surface beat its rotted heart.

  "Don't think for a second that I believe this story," Mercy said, shoving him forward. "You, my brother?" She snorted. "No more than a rat could be my brother. Soon your flesh will be feeding rats."

  They passed by another cell, and Cade's heart seemed to freeze. His eyes dampened.

  There she was.

  Oh stars.

  The prisoner knelt inside, chained. Her red hair hid her face, and bruises covered her body. Her green eyes stared at him, shining with tears.

  "Domi!" he cried.

  He tried to break free from Mercy. He tried to dash toward her cell, to speak to her, to reach inside and touch her hand, comfort her.

  "Cade," Domi whispered.

  "Move!" Mercy cried and
drove her fist into Cade's kidney. He cried out in pain, stumbling forward. Mercy grabbed a fistful of his hair, dragged him the last few feet forward, and tossed him into his own cell.

  Cade fell onto the floor, chains rattling, and banged his knees. Mercy stood in the doorway, clad in her priceless armor, a seraph of beauty and light. She stared down at him in disgust and spat on him.

  "I hope you choose death," she said. "I'll be the one to torture you. And I'll enjoy it. And I'll make it last a very long time." A mad grin stretched across her face, lurid, inhuman, a grin that tugged at her cheeks as if her face could split in two. It was the grin of a demon. "But not before you watch me do the same to your precious Domi."

  With that, Mercy slammed the door shut, sealing Cade in darkness. He heard her footsteps leaving the dungeon, and then he heard nothing but the screams.

  ROEN

  He stood outside, slamming his axe into the logs again and again, and with every blow he wanted to shatter the world. With every blow, Roen saw her eyes again, saw her walking away, saw her blazing into his life with heat and softness and love, then vanishing, elusive as a sprite.

  "Why did you ever come here?" He swung his axe down, cleaving the wooden log. He placed another log on the tree stump and swung again. "Just to love me, hurt me, leave again?"

  His axe cleaved through the log, drove into the tree stump beneath, and embedded itself there. Roen grunted and tugged on the axe so mightily he couldn't control it. It tore free, flew backward through the air, hit an oak, then thumped to the forest floor.

  Roen dropped to his knees with a similar thump, lowered his head, and clenched his fists at his sides. Piles of chopped wood rose around him in the forest, the pieces of his soul, for Fidelity had broken that soul as surely as he had chopped the wood.

  He looked around him. The forest was beautiful, a place of peace, of home. Aspens, oaks, and sugar maples rustled around him, their leaves turning yellow, orange, and gold. Moss coated boulders and fallen logs, and the song of birds and rustling leaves filled the canopy. Roen had chosen this life, a life of solitude in the wilderness, a life of forgetting. Of escape. A life away from the Cured Temple, the bustle of cities, the oppression of the priests . . . and away from her.

  Roen closed his eyes, the memories resurfacing.

  It had been almost four years ago, on a summer dawn, that she had come into his life. From beyond the years, Roen could still hear the shrieks of firedrakes, still see the fire blaze overhead.

  "Slay the weredragon!" the paladin had shouted, and the blast of their firedrakes' wings had shaken the forest canopy. "Burn the reptile!"

  While his father still slept, Roen had woken before dawn, and he was fishing from a stream as light slowly filled the forest. At first he thought he was still asleep, still dreaming. Yet when he stared up, he saw her: a blue dragon fleeing across the sky, two firedrakes in pursuit.

  "Burn the weredragon!"

  Roen stared up, chest constricting, fingers shaking.

  Weredragon.

  His eyes stung.

  My father and I are not alone.

  He summoned his magic, the magic the Temple called a curse, and he soared as a green dragon. He crashed through the canopy, rose behind the firedrakes, and blasted out his fire.

  His flaming jet washed over one paladin, and the man screamed, and his firedrake spun madly. Roen shot forth and lashed his claws, thrust his fangs, tasted blood, roared with rage. The firedrake crashed down to the forest, dead before it hit the trees. The second beast shot toward him, roaring out fire, and its rider shot arrows. Roen bellowed as the weapons slammed against him, but he refused to fall. He beat his wings, soared higher, and swooped. He felt like a mindless beast, like a firedrake himself, as his claws tore the paladin apart, then sank into the firedrake, ripping it open, sending it crashing down dead.

  With his enemies slain upon the forest, Roen reared in the sky, stretched out his claws, and roared, a great roar that echoed for miles.

  He had fled the Cured Temple to this forest. They had invaded his territory. He had sent them to their deaths, and his cry of rage rang across the land, a warning for all other enemies to hear and fear.

  Hovering before him in the sky, the young blue dragon stared at him, eyes wide, wings beating.

  The two dragons glided down and landed in the forest. Roen released his magic first and stood before her, a man again, clad in furs, his boots muddy, his face bearded, his hair strewn with leaves. The blue dragon released her magic next, stood before him as a girl, and pierced his heart with more pain than any arrow or sword could.

  She was beautiful. Her blue eyes shone with tears behind her thick, round spectacles. Her golden braid hung across her shoulder. A gash bled on her thigh, and her lips trembled.

  "I . . . I only wanted to fly a little in the night, but they saw me, and . . . oh stars, you're one of us." Her tears streamed down her cheeks. "Another Vir Requis. And you're hurt."

  He gazed down at the blood pouring from his chest, then back up at her.

  "Hello. I'm Roen."

  She blinked away her tears. "I'm Fidelity. Oh stars, let me tend to your wounds."

  She bandaged him, tearing off strips of her clothes, and she spoke to him of her life, of her books, of Requiem. He took her back to Old Hollow, his home within the log, to meet his father, to rest, to heal.

  She told him she'd been traveling to Lynport in the south, seeking rare books the merchants were said to bring from overseas. He told her she was wounded, that she had to stay with him a few days longer to rest, to heal.

  She stayed with him that autumn, an autumn of walking together through the forest, hand in hand, speaking of Requiem. An autumn of secret glances over dinner, of sitting close by the fire, of whispering of their dreams. An autumn of making love under the stars, feeling her naked body against his, holding her close, kissing her, sleeping with her in his arms.

  An autumn that ended with snow, with loss.

  "Stay," Roen told her. "Stay with us here. With Julian and me. You don't have to leave."

  She wept. "I must. I must find the old books of Requiem, collect them, cherish them, hide them." She touched his cheek. "Come with me, Roen. Fight with me to preserve the memory of Requiem. To find our kingdom's old books, to keep them safe. To keep the memory alive."

  He only shook his head. "And live in Sanctus, in a city full of priests and paladins? Surround myself with their holy books, pretending to serve them?" He laughed bitterly. "My father and I came into this forest to escape all that. To escape the Temple. How can I now go into that vipers' nest?"

  "To be with me," she whispered and kissed him.

  Yet he could not, no more than she could abandon her quest. With the first snows falling, she left him. Left his life cold. Empty. Scarred.

  Until she returned.

  "Until you returned, almost four years later," Roen whispered, kneeling between the piles of chopped wood. "Until you returned with your kisses, with your love, your life, your beauty, your softness . . . all those weapons that shatter me. You came to shatter my heart again, then leave."

  A voice rose ahead of him. "That's a lot of firewood. Any trees left in the forest?"

  Roen looked up to see his father. Julian wore old fur pelts and a leather belt. His feet were bare and muddy, and dry leaves were strewn through his long white beard. His tufted eyebrows shaded kind eyes.

  "Enough are left," Roen said.

  Julian walked toward the tree stump and sat down with creaking joints. "She'll be back someday, son. You'll see her again."

  Roen nodded, jaw clenched. "In three years. Or four." He found himself digging his fingernails into his palms. "Is this such a bad home, Father? That she'd leave?"

  Julian reached out and patted Roen's shoulder. "I like to think that I gave you a good home here, son. I moved to this forest so that I could raise you with your magic, keeping the light of Requiem burning inside you. But Fidelity, well . . . she craves more than solitude. She wants to sp
read that light. To let others see its glow. She wouldn't be happy here in the forest, shying away from a world she wants to save."

  More anger filled Roen. He grabbed a rock and hurled it into the forest. "Save the world?" He snorted. "The world can go to the Abyss. Requiem is gone, Father. Why can't she see that? Is it really so bad to . . . to just want to live? At peace? To find a pocket of light in a world gone to darkness?"

  "I don't think so." Julian smiled sadly. "That's why I raised you here. That's why we're sitting here now. But you cannot judge Fidelity for her war. She's brave and strong and willing to sacrifice her life for Requiem. So is her father. There is nobility to that."

  "The line between nobility and foolishness is often blurry." Roen stared at an old maple tree which he had once climbed with Fidelity. "I care about my life. Our life. Not the life of dead heroes, not a dead kingdom. She chose that dead kingdom over me." His voice was hoarse. "She abandoned me."

  Julian nodded. "Aye, laddie. And she thinks the same of you. In her eyes, you chose the forest over her."

  Roen spun toward his father, eyes red. "I wanted her to live in this forest! With us!"

  "And did she not offer you to join her in Sanctus, to live with her father in the library?"

  "That library burned." Roen's fists shook. "The paladins made sure to burn it. And now Fidelity and Cade are fighting some war they cannot win." He barked a laugh. "Cade—that foolish boy. I saw how he looked at Fidelity, how his eyes strayed down across her body, how he kept trying to hover around her, how—Father! Why are you laughing?"

  The old man sighed. "Julian, do you hear yourself? Jealous of a boy? Fidelity loves you, my son. She'll love you always, even if you two are apart." Julian rose from the stump, walked toward Roen, and clasped his arm. "Now come, let's return to Old Hollow, and I'll cook you some mushroom stew."

  Roen nodded, feeling weak, and lifted his axe. The two men turned to walk toward Old Hollow, the grand oak that was their home.

  Dry leaves crunched behind them, making them pause.