PILLARS OF DRAGONFIRE
FLAME OF REQUIEM, BOOK THREE
by
Daniel Arenson
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE: TIL
CHAPTER TWO: MELIORA
CHAPTER THREE: VALE
CHAPTER FOUR: MELIORA
CHAPTER FIVE: LUCEM
CHAPTER SIX: MELIORA
CHAPTER SEVEN: VALE
CHAPTER EIGHT: ISHTAFEL
CHAPTER NINE: TIL
CHAPTER TEN: MELIORA
CHAPTER ELEVEN: VALE
CHAPTER TWELVE: LUCEM
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ISHTAFEL
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: MELIORA
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: VALE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MELIORA
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ELORY
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: BIM
CHAPTER NINETEEN: LUCEM
CHAPTER TWENTY: TIL
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: ISHTAFEL
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: MELIORA
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: LUCEM
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: ISHTAFEL
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: JAREN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: VALE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: TIL
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: MELIORA
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: TIL
CHAPTER THIRTY: VALE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: TIL
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: MELIORA
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: ISHTAFEL
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: MELIORA
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: VALE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: ELORY
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: VALE
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: LUCEM
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: JAREN
CHAPTER FORTY: ISHTAFEL
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: MELIORA
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: VALE
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: ELORY
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: VALE
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: ELORY
AFTERWORD
NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON
KEEP IN TOUCH
TIL
They crept through the ruins—a man, a woman, a child—seeking life in fields of death.
Please, stars of Requiem, Til prayed silently, moving through the snow. Let there be others. Please.
The snow kept falling and she couldn't stop shivering. Her woolen cloak was too ragged, and the wind invaded its holes to claw her skin. Her patches of rusted armor, cobbled together over the years, felt like ice pressed against her. Holes filled her boots, snow sloshed around her toes, and Til began to wonder if the cold would kill her before the fire of the seraphim could.
The ruins of Requiem spread around her. Clouds veiled the sun, allowing only dim light to fall upon the devastation. Columns lay shattered around her like the bones of giants. Icicles clung to statues of dragons and ancient kings. An archway still stood on a hill, the entrance to some old temple, the walls around it long fallen. Only crows now stood upon what remained of the battlements, the priests and warriors long fallen. Homes, schools, libraries, hospitals—all now lay as strewn bricks, covered in snow. Forgotten. Dead like the denizens of this place.
Nova Vita, fabled capital of Requiem, Til thought, shivering as she walked among the snowy ruins. She lowered her head. Like every other place, you too are gone.
"There's nothing but death here," she whispered.
At her left side, her father grunted. "Let's take a closer look. We'll scan the city."
Til turned to look at him. Father was tall and haggard, his eyes dark. Like her, he wore a tattered cloak, the gray wool dusted with snow. Like her, he sported flaming red hair, most of it hidden beneath his hood. Like her, he held a bow, and a sword and quiver hung across his back. Yet he seemed more hopeful to Til, stronger, braver.
He still believes, she thought. Still believes we can win this rebellion. Still believes other Vir Requis survived.
Five hundred years ago, the seraphim had come here to Requiem. Five hundred years ago, they had carted off nearly all the Vir Requis in chains.
But a few Vir Requis had remained in their homeland. A few had avoided the chains, had hidden, had survived, had passed the torch of Requiem to a new generation. For five centuries, free Vir Requis had been fighting the seraphim here in Requiem, haggard but wearing no collars, hiding in forests and caves, keeping the old flame alive. As most of their people languished in slavery far in the south, these few had remained, had fought on. Til. Her father. Her brother. Perhaps they were the last.
"I want to leave," whispered Til's brother. "Please, Father. Please. I'm scared. They'll find us. I want to go back to the caves. Please."
Til turned to her right. Her brother, Bim, walked there. He was only eleven years old—a full decade younger than Til—but his eyes were older. Dark eyes, too large in his gaunt face. Haunted eyes. The eyes of an old soldier who had seen too many killed, had killed too many. Bim too carried sword and bow, the weapons too large for him, and beneath his hood, a man's helmet wobbled on his head.
Forced to grow up too soon, Til thought. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Like I was. Like we all were. But will he live to be my age?
"Soon," Til said, trying to make her voice soothing, though fear coiled through her. "Soon, Bim. We just have to see if any others live in this city."
His eyes flooded with tears, and his breath shuddered. "We've been looking for others for so long. For years. For years, Til! It'll be the same here as everywhere else. Just bones."
He pointed.
Til looked and her spirits sank deeper. Three skeletons hung from the frosted branches of oaks, swinging in the wind. The crows had stripped them bare. These were not the skeletons of Requiem's ancient warriors, those who had fallen in the Great Calamity five hundred years ago when Prince Ishtafel had shattered this land. The ropes around their necks were too fresh. No. Here were others like Til and her family. Others who had survived the war, who had been living in hiding, fighting from the shadows all these centuries. Still falling. One by one. Last lights going out after a great flame, last stars vanishing long after the sun had set.
Father approached, placed his arm around Bim, and turned the boy away from the grisly sight. "We keep going, son." Father's voice was but a whisper. "Just a little longer. We might yet find life here."
They walked onward, and with every step, Til's hope shrank. When she had been a youth, there had been others. Not many but enough to give Til a sense of camaraderie, of hope to see Requiem reborn. She had fought with them, the last free Vir Requis, the ancestors of those who had survived the war, who had hidden in tunnels and forests while the seraphim had carried their brethren to southern slavery. For centuries they had hidden in their ravaged homeland, scurrying from hole to hole, fighting in the forests and ruins.
Until five years ago.
Til lowered her head.
Until the disastrous rebellion.
The man had led them, the prophet, the one who had claimed to be king. He had gathered all free Vir Requis, all those who had cowered and hidden in Requiem. A thousand dragons had flown that day, flown against the Overlord, the cruel seraph who ruled over these ruins.
And the dragons had burned. They had fallen screaming.
Hundreds had perished in the flames that day, and the survivors—mere dozens—had fled. For five years now, the Overlord had been hunting them. Killing them one by one. Til's comrades. Her mother. Her older brother. Until this was all that remained: a haggard father; a frightened son; and her—a young woman with red hair, old patches of armor, and fading hope in her heart.
As they kept walking, fire crackled above.
At once Til, her brother, and her father leaped aside. Father crouched behind a toppled statue, and Til and Bim huddled under a fallen log. Red light fell upon the snow
. Til's heart pounded, and she clutched her sword's hilt. Peering from under her snowy hood, she saw them above.
Chariots of fire.
She grimaced, cold sweat on her brow. She still remembered those chariots tearing through the rebels five years ago. She still remembered the seraphim, deities from the sky, slaying her mother and older brother. A thousand times in her dreams, she had seen these chariots fly into Requiem—the Old Requiem from five hundred years ago—and topple this city.
Only three now flew above, their firehorses shedding ash, and suddenly Til wanted to summon her magic. To become a dragon. To fly, to blow her fire like she had during the rebellion. To burn down the seraphim, even if she died in their fire.
And why shouldn't she? She was not like the Vir Requis slaves who languished in the south, captives of Saraph. Her ancestors had avoided the chains and collars, had remained in Requiem, had learned to survive in these ruins. Til was a warrior descended of warriors. She had been fighting in these ruins all her life. She reached down, felt her magic tingling there—the ancient magic of Requiem. The magic that would let her fly as a dragon. To fight instead of cower.
The chariots flew onward, and Til released her magic and lowered her head.
No, she thought. The rebellion is over. There is no more hope to fight the seraphim, only hope to maybe find more Vir Requis. To maybe live another day.
With the chariots gone, they emerged from their hiding spots. Bim was crying. The damn boy was always crying lately.
"You have to be strong." Til grabbed his shoulders, leaned down, and stared into her brother's eyes. "You hear? You're eleven years old, old enough to fight, to be a man. To be strong."
"I want to go home," he whispered.
Til's throat tightened. "This is our home." She swept her arm across the ruins. "See this place? This is Nova Vita, the ancient capital of Requiem. Where our ancestors are from. See the old walls, the archway, the bridge?"
He shook his head, shivering. "I see only burnt stones. Only bones. I want to go back to the cave. The place in the north where we hid. To hide. To hide from the fire. They're going to burn us." He covered his eyes, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "The seraphim."
Father approached and brushed snow off Bim's shoulders. "Come, son, just a little farther. There might be others here. Other survivors."
Til looked over Bim's head and met her father's gaze. He stared back, his green eyes so weary in his haggard face. She had the same eyes. Eyes that clung to hope though the mind knew there was none.
She nodded. "We keep going."
They kept walking through the ruins as the snow fell. As they stepped over frosted bricks, Til imagined a home standing here, a hearth crackling, a family gathered together in prayer and love. She walked alongside a staircase that rose only four steps, leading to a pile of rubble and smashed statues, and she imagined a temple standing here, soaring toward the sky, full of priests who sang the old songs. When she gazed up at the clouds, she imagined millions of dragons flying above in every color.
This was a great nation once, Til thought. A nation now enslaved in the south. But I will never be a slave. I will never wear a collar. Better to live like a rat, scurrying from hole to hole, than live in a cage.
The sun was low in the sky when she saw it ahead. Til froze and gasped. Her father and brother stood with her, staring with wide eyes.
"There it is," Till whispered. "It's real."
She had always known her father to be stern, laconic, but now the haggard man knelt in the snow, and his eyes dampened.
"King's Column," he whispered.
The ancient pillar was still distant, miles away, but easily visible. It soared above the treetops, three hundred feet tall. Til had never seen it before, but like all Vir Requis, she knew the tales. Thousands of years ago, the legendary Aeternum had raised that column in the forest, a beacon to summon the wild, hunted Vir Requis from across the world. It had become the backbone of Requiem, the kingdom of those who could grow wings and scales, breathe fire, and rise as dragons.
For thousands of years, Til knew, the enemies of Requiem had tried to topple this column. Yet so long as a single Vir Requis breathed, the column would stand. And so even now, in these ruins, with the seraphim burning the sky, King's Column still soared.
"Thousands of years ago, this was a beacon to our hunted, outcast people," Til said. "I pray that it acts as a beacon still. If any others survived the rebellion, I pray that we find them here."
Other survivors. Til did not know if any still lived in these ruins. She had not seen others for months now, not since her mother had died. Perhaps they were all that remained—her, her father, her brother . . . and the collared slaves in the south. Yet if others still lived free, they would be here, she knew. Here at this ancient heart of an ancient kingdom.
The ruins were thick here, with countless bricks, staircases, and columns buried under the snow. Walking was slow but they dared not fly. In human form, they would quickly leap and hide should more chariots burn above. As dragons they would be visible for leagues. As she walked, Til tried to imagine the great manors and temples that had risen here, the heart of the city. In her mind's eye, she could see Requiem standing again, beautiful in the winter, a safe home.
I pray that someday Requiem rises again, she thought. If there is any holiness left in this place, and if you can hear me, stars of my forebears, let us survive long enough. For thousands of years, empires have risen to destroy us, only to fall. I pray that we live long enough to see Saraph fall too, to see Requiem reborn, but the darkness is great, and the wait is long, and I'm afraid.
She stared ahead at King's Column, seeking solace from this ancient pillar, yet when she stepped closer, a strangled yelp left her mouth.
Her father grunted, and Bim covered his eyes.
Stars above, Til thought. She walked closer, dreading what she saw, unable to turn away. Sickness rose inside her, and she knelt over and gagged.
In the stories, King's Column shone like starlight, carved of purest marble, a pillar like white dragonfire. Yet now dried blood coated the stone, flaking and rancid. Hundreds of skeletons draped across the column, strung along chains, like a lurid maypole from the Abyss. They were human skeletons, wingless—the skeletons of Vir Requis.
Bim let out a strangled yelp. Til pulled him into her arms and pressed his face against her shoulder.
Ancient magic still protected the column, Til knew, and the seraphim could not topple it. But they could defile it. They had turned it from a beacon of hope into a monument of Requiem's fall.
"They're all dead." She stared at her father with dry eyes. "We leave. There's nobody here."
But she was wrong.
There was life here.
Cruel life. Life of sunfire and steel.
They rose from the ruins. They descended from the clouds. They burned the sky and melted the ice. Hundreds of them, casting out blinding light.
The seraphim.
Some flew in chariots of fire, pulled by winged horses of flame. Other seraphim spread their own wings, and the firelight shone against their armor, spears, and golden hair. At their lead flew a glittering deity, his armor gilded, a blinding halo around his head. He was a burly figure, beautiful to behold, his blond locks flowing, a figure who seemed woven of light. A sigil of a rampant lion glittered upon his breastplate.
Til knew this one. The Overlord. Commander of the north, this land that had once been Requiem.
"Run!" Til whispered.
She raced through the snow. Her brother and father ran with her. Til whipped her head from side to side, seeking shelter—a cave, a fallen log, a huddle between walls. Finally she spotted a fallen column ahead, a hollowed out space below.
But it was too late.
They saw her.
"Weredragons!" the seraphim cried. "Weredragons below. Seize the reptiles! String them up with the others."
For five years—five terrible years since the doomed uprising—Til had slunk th
rough the ruins in human form, hiding in holes and caves, scurrying between trees and hills, her sword and arrows her only weapons.
The time to hide was over.
This day, in sight of her defiled column in the heart of her stolen kingdom, Til summoned her magic.
Scales flowed across her, rattling like a suit of armor, deep orange trimmed with yellow. Wings burst out from her back, tipped with black claws. Her tail lashed. She took to the sky, the color of fire, and blasted out her own flames. Her father and brother shifted too, both rising as black dragons, and their fire pierced the sky.
The light of Saraph flared. The sun was setting, but the light of a thousand suns now covered the sky and ruins, gold and white. A voice tore through the air, a voice so loud its waves pounded against Til and cracked trees below, a voice mellifluous yet terrible, a voice like a beautiful dirge. The voice of a god.
"Slay the reptiles!"
Til didn't have to look to know—this was the voice of the Overlord.
"Fly!" Til shouted to her family. "Don't look back, just fly!"
The three dragons shot forward, the fire and light blazing behind them. Flames rained, so hot even the frozen trees kindled and burned. More seraphim kept rising, emerging from the forest and ruins, plunging from the clouds, covering the world with their light. Their lances rose like a second forest, their eyes were cruel stars, and their wings shone like clouds in dawn. The hosts of heaven, wreathed in splendor, angels of wrath and retribution—they stormed from all sides.
"Slay the beasts of darkness! Slay the reptiles for the glory of Saraph."
And so this is how we die, Til thought. Not hiding in shadows but roaring in light. We die in fire.
The seraphim charged toward the dragons from all sides, a luminous noose. Til reared in the air, spread her wings wide, and blasted out her flames.
Her dragonfire roared outward, slamming into a chariot. The firehorses scattered, and a seraph screamed. More seraphim charged from her sides, thrusting their lances. The firehorse hooves thundered, and the tips of lances gleamed, and Til knew that she would join them—the skeletons on the pillar, the last free warriors of Requiem.
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