"Meliora!" Vale cried, seeking her in the blaze. "Sister!"
He could no longer see her, but he could see Ishtafel. The King of Saraph flew before him, his armor shining, chariot casting out flames, a god of light and wrath, a sun shining upon the battle.
Vale flew toward the tyrant. All around him, thousands of dragons battled thousands of chariots. The sky rained blood, scales, and ash.
Issari, the Priestess in White, told me that a great battle awaits me. Vale roared and blew his dragonfire. This is my battle.
"Vale Aeternum!" Ishtafel called in delight.
Vale growled. He had fought Ishtafel before over the city, had watched the deity slay sixty thousand slaves.
But today we are no longer slaves. Today we are dragons.
He blasted his dragonfire.
The inferno crackled and spun, driving toward Ishtafel, but the tyrant rose in his chariot, dodging the flames. He swooped, lance thrusting.
Vale swiped his claws, knocking the lance aside. He snapped his jaws, trying to bite Ishtafel, but he bit only fire and cried out in pain. He swung his tail toward Ishtafel but hit the seraph's shield.
"Last time I nailed you to my palace!" Ishtafel laughed and thrust his lance. "This time I'll skewer you in the sky."
Vale dipped in the sky, and the lance scraped across his back, tearing off scales. He yowled. He blew his fire again, but Ishtafel raised his shield, and the flames scattered and showered back onto Vale.
The chariot spun around and the firehorses charged, slamming into Vale.
He cried out as the fire washed over him, and the hooves slammed into his head.
He fell.
Burnt and cut, he lost his magic, tumbling down as a human.
He grabbed his magic again. He rose as a dragon, blowing his dragonfire, but only sparks now left his mouth. He was too weary, too hurt, his belly empty of flames.
Ishtafel charged, and his spear flashed and drove into Vale's wing. The leathern membrane tore.
Vale roared and snapped his jaws, tried to blow fire, but cast out only sparks.
The spear thrust again, scraping across his cheek, tearing it open and scattering scales.
Vale fell, tumbling, barely clinging to his dragon magic.
"Grab him!" Ishtafel shouted, all amusement now gone from his voice. "Hold him up!"
Chariots of fire streamed forth, twenty or more, surrounding Vale. He slammed down onto one. Others drove into his sides, their fire washing across him. Seraphim stood within, swinging chains. Grapples drove into Vale's flesh. Chains tightened around him. The chariots flew higher, trapping him in the chains, stretching him out, displaying him like a tortured prisoner upon a metal cross.
Vale thrashed, whipped his tail, knocked one seraph down. The chariots pulled farther apart, stretching his chained limbs, driving iron links into his soft underbelly. Vale roared, stretched so wide his joints nearly dislocated. He hung in the sky, helpless like the time he'd been nailed onto the ziggurat. As all around in the sky the dragons and seraphim battled, Vale hung in his chains, roaring and flailing and unable to free himself, knowing he was going to die.
I'm sorry, Tash, he thought, grimacing in pain. I'm sorry.
The memories flashed before him. Tash and him, traveling through the wilderness to find the Chest of Plenty. Kissing in the delta. Making love. Laughing together. The light in her brown eyes, the softness of her hair flowing between his fingers, the warmth of her smile, her love.
And then the tears. The anger. Tash betraying him, betraying Requiem, only to turn back after two steps—and Vale turning away from her. Leaving her love behind.
Now, as he faced death, tears filled his eyes.
I'm sorry, Tash. I love you.
Ishtafel hovered before him in his chariot.
"And now, son of Aeternum, I will kill you. Slowly. I will first carve out your entrails. Then your liver, then your stomach, then peel off your skin. And still you will live. I've done this many times, and I know how to keep you alive. Only when you beg and call me 'master' will I cut out your heart."
Vale thrashed in his chains, tossed back his head, and howled. His wings beat. Spurts of fire left his maw.
No. No! I was meant to fight for Requiem in a great battle, to save our nation, not this, not this!
Ishtafel hefted his lance, smiling. He spread out his swan wings, rose from his chariot, and hovered in the air. He aimed his lance at Vale's belly, eyes narrowed like a surgeon examining his patient.
"Issari!" Vale cried out. "Issari!"
"Your gods can't help you, reptile." Ishtafel grinned. "I am your only god now. We begin."
Baring his teeth, Ishtafel flew forth, lance flashing.
"Vale, no!" rose a voice from below.
Golden scales flashed. Fire blasted. Crying out, Tash soared, placing herself between Vale and the thrusting lance.
"Tash!" Vale cried.
Her fire roared out, slamming against Ishtafel, washing across him, an inferno, a storm, engulfing the seraph.
Emerging from the flames, Ishtafel's lance drove into her chest, cracking her scales, and burst out of her back.
"Tash!" Vale roared.
Ishtafel screamed, falling, wings ablaze.
Seraphim flew downward after their lord, and Vale thrashed, tearing off the chains.
"Tash!"
She stared at him in the sky, a golden dragon, a lance piercing her, then lost her magic.
The lance tore free and tumbled.
A young woman clad in silk, Tash fell from the sky.
Vale pulled his wings close to his body and plunged after her. Seraphim flew everywhere. Ishtafel was still screaming somewhere in the distance, and fire flared, and the battle of countless dragons and chariots stormed all around. Vale dived, reached out his claws, and grabbed Tash.
He spread his wings wide, and they caught the wind. Air whistled through the hole in his right wing, but he managed to steady his flight, to descend toward the earth. Tash hung in his claws, limp.
Gently he placed her on the ground. His heart seemed to clench, and his breath caught. The battle still raged above them, blood rained, and corpses lay strewn across the field. Vale released his magic, returned to human form, and knelt above Tash.
"Tash," he whispered and touched her cheek. She still lived, her breath shallow, her eyelids fluttering. A hole gaped through her chest, and blood poured down her belly and soaked her silken trousers.
"I . . . I burned him," she whispered. "I burned Ishtafel for you, Vale. I . . ."
Tears filled his eyes. He tore off his shirt and held the cloth to her wound. She winced. Her face was so pale, turning grey.
"Issari," Vale whispered, looking up at the night sky. "Heal her, please. Heal her, great priestess."
But he could not see the stars, only the raging dragons and chariots and flames.
"Vale." Tash's voice shook, so weak. "Hold me. Don't leave me. Don't look away."
Tears falling, he held her in his arms, cradling her shivering body. "I'm not leaving you, Tash. Never. I promise."
She coughed weakly, reached up, and touched his cheek. "I love you, Vale Aeternum. And I'm sorry for what I've done. I'm sorry."
"You are forgiven," he whispered. "I love you too. I always did. I always will."
"Fight for them, Vale. Lead them home. To Requiem."
She was growing so cold in his arms, and her blood would not stop pouring. "You will fight with me! I will heal you. The Priestess in White will heal you. I—"
"No." Tash shook her head. "I'm no daughter of a great dynasty. I'm no heroine. I'm just a woman who loves you, who loves our home across the sea. I will see Requiem again, Vale. I can see her already." Her eyes shone, and she stared skyward. "She's up there, Vale, a Requiem all in starlight, and her harps are calling me home." Her tears streamed. "I will find our sky. I fly to it now."
"No, Tash." His tears splashed her cheeks, and he kissed her lips. "Don't leave us. Don't leave me. I love you."
"This is a good way to die," she whispered. "In your arms. I will always be with you, Vale. Always. In your heart and in your stars."
Her eyes closed, and her breath died upon his kiss.
Vale held her close against him, rocking her, her head against his chest. A sob shook his body.
I love you, Tash. I love you. Goodbye, daughter of Requiem. Goodbye.
MELIORA
They're too many.
Meliora fought across the sky, her dragonfire down to mere spurts, her silvery scales cracked. Her front foot—a hand in her human form—was ravaged, dripping, blazing with an inferno.
Too many seraphim . . . we cannot beat them.
The dragons had crossed the wall and were flying over the wilderness now, but countless chariots of fire kept attacking, flying in from every direction, culling the dragons. Every heartbeat, another Vir Requis lost his or her magic and tumbled down through the night. Ishtafel had murdered sixty thousand Vir Requis last time Meliora had rebelled; now he would slaughter them all.
"Dragons, fly!" she called out. "Fly with me, faster! Fly north!"
Yet Requiem lay so many miles away; it would take weeks of flight to get there, and the seraphim would harry them every mile.
We'll all die long before we reach the coast, Meliora knew. Even as dragons. She snarled. Then let me die giving the others hope. Let me kill as many seraphim as I can, even if only a handful of dragons escape. That handful will rebuild a nation.
She charged into battle, flying across the rim of the camp, tearing into the ranks of attacking seraphim. Lucem roared at her side, a red dragon, his fire still flowing. Elory fought with them, scales chipped and bleeding, but still the lavender dragon swiped her claws and tail, sending seraphim down dead.
For every seraph killed, it seemed that a dozen Vir Requis fell, resuming human forms in death. Men. Women. Children. They fell like rain through the darkness.
The fall of Requiem, Meliora thought. We rose in light and now we fall in shadow.
Yet even in the darkness a new light shone.
The sun rose in the east, and from the light they flew.
"Meliora the Merciful!" they cried. "Meliora, our mother!"
She looked into the light, and her eyes dampened.
The erevim.
They flew in from the dawn, the life she had made. Beings raised from the mud, given the blood of both Vir Requis and seraphim. Men and women coated with scales, swan feathers growing from their wings and heads. They flew toward the battle, crying out her name. They had multiplied in the wilderness, and a thousand or more now flew forth.
"We fight with you, Meliora!"
With battle cries, the erevim charged against the chariots of fire, lashing their claws at seraphim, tearing at their flesh with sharp teeth.
"For Requiem!" rose new voices in the west. "For Requiem, slay the immortals!"
Meliora spun in the sky, saw them, and gasped.
"Hope," she whispered. "Hope rises."
They flew in from the lingering shadows, a hundred ghostly ships sailing through the sky, translucent, firing their cannons. Ships of Old Requiem. The rebels who had once risen up against the Aeternum family; they now came to raise Requiem from ruin. Upon their decks, thousands of skeletons danced, rose, shifted into ghostly dragons of smoke. The creatures stormed forth, blowing out white fire.
The seraphim shouted in fury, then in fear, and finally in pain.
The astral dragons flowed across them, tearing them apart, ripping limbs off torsos, severing wings, sending corpses falling. Ships blasted their astral cannons, sending chariots crashing down. The erevim flew between the apparitions, blood on their claws, still calling out her name.
"Meliora, Meliora!"
The dragons of Requiem flew on.
Blasting out fire, clawing the enemies in their way, they flowed across the sky.
They flew away from Tofet.
They flew away from the army of seraphim.
They flew through blood and fire and rain. To freedom. To a dream of Requiem.
LUCEM
The dragons flew, and flying among them, Lucem thought of home.
For the first eleven years of his life, home had been in Tofet. A home of the whip, the shackles, the pain of carving and molding bricks. Then, for the second half of his life, home had been the wilderness—huddling in caves, wandering the darkness, singing to nobody, talking to invisible friends.
Lucem looked around him. He flew as a dragon on the wind, and thousands of other dragons flew with him. Their scales shone brilliantly in the sun like a field of jewels. Lucem's eyes stung. So many times he had dreamed of seeing this—seeing the people of Requiem rise in their dragon forms, no collars around their necks. Free. Leaving Tofet and the corpses of seraphim behind.
And leaving two other souls behind, Lucem thought, eyes dampening.
Elory flew up to him, a slender dragon, smaller than most. Her scales were deep purple near her belly, growing lighter along her flanks, turning pale lavender on her back. Her horns were small and white, her eyes kind. One of her ears thrust out from her head, violet and scaled. The other was missing.
"How are you, Lucem?" she asked softly.
He blinked the tears out of his eyes. "I just . . . I just wish they could have been here. My parents. I keep looking around, hoping to see them, even imagining that they fly with us. But then I remember. How the overseers killed them a decade ago." He lowered his head as he flew. "How they'll never see our freedom."
Elory flew a little closer and touched her wing to his. She reached out her tail, gently tapping his own tail.
"I'm sorry, Lucem. I miss my mother too—so badly that it physically hurts." Elory's eyes shone damply. "I don't know what'll happen next. I don't know how many enemies await between us and Requiem. But whatever happens, I'm here for you. Always. I love you, Lucem, and I'll always fly by your side."
They flew together, side by side, bodies touching.
Lucem stared forward as they flew. Across the thousands of dragons, the wilderness sprawled to the horizon. Thousands of miles still separated them from Requiem, and many enemies perhaps waited along the way. And yet beyond the horizon it lay. Their homeland.
Let Requiem be my third home, Lucem thought. Let it be a home to all of us. A home of light, of safety, and of peace.
MELIORA
The children of Requiem gathered in the wilderness under the heat of the blinding sun.
The land was burnt around them. The rushes along the river, the trees, the forests, all had burned in the fire of Saraph when the first slaves had escaped to find hope. Now half a million Vir Requis had fled their captivity, and they covered the land.
Most stood or lay as humans, nursing their wounds. Many flew as dragons above the camp, protecting those below. The Vir Requis carried their meager supplies with them—skins of water, sacks of oatmeal, a few pickaxes, some dried fruit, not much more.
Meliora walked up a hill until she stood above the camp. In dragon form, her front foot had been wounded in the battle, and now her hand was bandaged, blazing, screaming with movement. The hot wind billowed her tattered burlap robe, and her good hand rested on the hilt of Amerath, her ancient sword of kings and queens. The sun beat down upon her, browning her limbs, and her halo crackled above her head.
What a figure she must have struck, she thought. Only a few months ago, she had been a different person. Nobody from that time of her life would recognize her now. Once she had worn gowns of finest muslin, adorned with precious jewels. Swan wings had grown from her back, and golden hair had cascaded across her shoulders. Her skin had been pale, soft, powdered. Today that skin was tanned and covered in scabs and bruises. Her hair was but stubble on her head, and instead of a golden halo, she stood crowned with dragonfire. No more swan wings grew from her back, but two scars ran there along her shoulder blades, reminders of who she had been, who she could never be again.
My seraph half died with my wings, she thought. I
am nothing but a daughter of Requiem now, pure.
"Children of Requiem!" she cried, and below the hill, the people turned toward her. "Hear me, children of Requiem!"
They stared up at her. Thin, hungry, wounded. Wearing rags. Their ankles still chafed from the chains they had discarded. A brutalized people, heirs to a kingdom they had never forgotten.
Meliora summoned her magic and soared as a dragon.
She rose high and cried out, her voice rolling across the camp.
"I am Meliora Aeternum! I brought you the Keeper's Key, and I freed you from your collars, but the danger has not passed." She flew across the multitudes below, letting them all hear. "The cruel Ishtafel was dealt a blow, but if he still lives, he's licking his wounds, and he's building a new army. If he's dead, then whatever heir Saraph places upon the throne will hunt us. We will fly fast. We will continue fleeing."
She could see the fear in them. That was good. They needed to be afraid now. That fear twisted Meliora's own heart.
"You are free now, children of Requiem!" she said. "You are free warriors, no longer slaves. And you will fight to see Requiem again. Our kingdom lies across many miles. Even as the dragon flies, Requiem lies a moon away, and many dangers wait along that path: armies of seraphim and creatures even darker. And even should we reach Requiem, we will find nothing but ruins."
The crowd murmured below. Some cried out in anguish.
"But we will fly there nonetheless!" Meliora said. "Because Requiem is our home. It has been our home for five thousand years, since our ancestor, King Aeternum, raised a column in a birch forest. That column still stands! It awaits us. We will seek it across the miles, and we will be a proud nation again. This I promise to you, Vir Requis. I will lead you to our land. I will lead you home."
They cried out to her, hundreds of thousands, the last survivors of an ancient race. "Meliora the Merciful! Praise Meliora!"
She blew a pillar of white fire, a twin to King's Column in the north. "Follow, children of Requiem! Follow my light. Follow me home."
Pillars of Dragonfire Page 3
