Pillars of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  Lucem flew closer to one of the archangels. It loomed above him, larger than he had thought, dwarfing him. It turned its terrible golden eyes upon Lucem. Those eyes swirled like smelters of molten metal, gold touched with white, seeing all, digging into him, burning him like shards of hot metal.

  The whip crackled the air, casting out bolts of lightning, and swung toward him.

  Lucem blasted his fire and dived.

  The whip swung over his head with a shriek that nearly shattered Lucem's eardrums. The air boomed like thunder. The blade swung, and Lucem swerved, soared, blasted more flames. His dragonfire crashed into the archangel and showered back onto Lucem, burning his scales.

  The whip lashed again, and Lucem ducked his head.

  Pain.

  White, searing light.

  Lucem screamed.

  The agony raced across his head, and he lost his magic.

  Lucem fell, a man again.

  He cut me. He cut open my skull. I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm sorry, Requiem.

  The city rushed up below to meet him, walls and towers and courtyards, and everywhere the dragons flew. More corpses fell all around Lucem. Maybe he was dead already. He could barely see the battle above, just flashes of light and spurts of fire and the roar and hum.

  "Lucem!" rose a voice.

  Violet scales streaked. A dragon plunged down, wreathed in smoke. Claws reached out and grabbed Lucem mere feet above the city roofs.

  They soared.

  "Lucem, can you hear me?" Elory cried.

  Clutched in her claws, he blinked and touched his head. He felt nothing. No pain. No blood. He was unhurt.

  "I . . . I'm fine." Lucem pulled himself free from her claws, fell a few feet, then shifted back into a dragon.

  At once the pain flared again, and he screamed. Flying before him, Elory gasped.

  "Your horns . . ." she whispered.

  Lucem reached up with his claws, seeking his horns.

  He touched pure fire and agony.

  He screamed and nearly lost his magic again.

  And he knew—the whip had severed the tips of his horns. Just a few inches. Enough to sear him with pain.

  "Your ear, my horns," he muttered. "What will they take next? Better not be anything . . . special. I need my special parts! And I haven't even shown them off to you yet, Elory."

  She rolled her eyes. "Focus on killing those archangels, O great hero of Requiem."

  Kill them? Lucem looked up at the battle raging in the sky. The dead were still falling. Lucem winced as a disemboweled corpse plunged down only a foot away; he had to swerve aside to dodge it. No. You could not kill these beasts. At least not with fire or claw. As he watched, several dragons slammed into an archangel, lashing claws, biting into the flesh of molten light, only to scream and burn.

  "We might as well try to cut fire," he muttered.

  Elory winced. "So it's impossible. We cannot win this."

  Lucem grunted. Impossible. Impossible! Yet they had also said it was impossible to scale the walls of Tofet. They had said that nobody could escape that land of pain.

  Yet Lucem had scaled the wall. He had escaped. He had done the impossible.

  He would do it again.

  "Not with dragonfire," he said. "Not with claws or fangs. Fly with me, Elory! Follow my lead."

  The lavender dragon nodded.

  Leaving the dragons and archangels to battle above, Lucem and Elory swooped.

  Every heartbeat, Lucem knew, Ishtafel was drawing closer. They would do this quickly. He dived across the coastal city, traveling over the roofs of homes, workshops, manors, courtyards, seeking, eyes narrowed.

  There!

  A portico of columns rose along the coast, supporting a roof over a limestone veranda that faced the sea. Lucem dived low, skimming the ground. He roared, narrowed his eyes, and slammed himself against a column.

  The pain bloomed inside him. He yowled. An instant later, Elory slammed into the column too.

  The limestone cracked.

  Ignoring the pain, Lucem backed up, then slammed himself into the column again.

  The column shattered and fell.

  Panting, Lucem grabbed one end of the heavy limestone pillar. "Elory, help!"

  She nodded. She understood. She grabbed the second edge of the column.

  They flapped their wings mightily, scattering sand across the beach. They grunted, jaws clenched, barely able to rise. Yet slowly, foot by foot, they flew higher, carrying the column in their claws.

  They rose higher. The battle swirled around them, a symphony of sound and light. A corpse fell, slammed into Lucem's back, and rolled down toward the city. He grimaced but kept rising with Elory, carrying the column.

  An archangel loomed above, its hum deafening, its light blinding. Its whip swung forward, ripping through five dragons. Its blade lashed, tearing through other dragons that charged toward it. Behind this giant of liquid light, its comrades were slaying other dragons, plowing through the lines. Several dragons were trying to escape but wailed in fear, for in the south, clearly visible now, the host of harpies was charging forth, their shrieks and stench carrying in the wind. Some dragons tried to fly north, to cross the sea, only for the whips and blades of light to cut them down. The bodies fell into the water and washed ashore.

  "Ready?" Lucem shouted.

  Elory nodded. "Together—now!"

  The archangel ahead noticed them, turned its golden eyes toward them, and advanced through the sky, wings blasting out beams.

  Lucem and Elory roared with effort, pulling the column backward . . . then drove it forth with all their might.

  The limestone capital slammed into the archangel's head.

  The giant being shrieked.

  It was the sound of ten thousand bones shattering, of oceans boiling and steaming away, of the sky itself cracking. The column kept driving forward, plowing through the head, shattering it. The sun seemed to burst. Luminous chunks of skull scattered through the sky. The innards of the head leaked, molten metal, purest white rimmed with gold.

  The archangel's colossal corpse fell through the sky, almost graceful, silent, like a great feather.

  It hit the city and blasted out, exploding with fury, knocking down buildings for several blocks, casting shockwaves that roiled the dragons in the sky.

  Those dragons cried out in victory.

  At once, hundreds dipped in the sky, gathering columns that had fallen in the explosion. They rose, three or four dragons carrying each pillar.

  The archangels shrieked, fighting back. A whip tore through one column, halving the stone. Another archangel swung its blade, shattering another column. But it was too late to stop the dragons of Requiem. Six archangels remained, and thousands of dragons were now dipping to grab stones—some lifted columns, and some dragons merely grabbed chunks of the buildings.

  A pillar drove into another archangel, cleaving through the effulgent torso. The beast screamed and fell and blasted apart. A roaring red dragon swung an entire stone balcony, ripped off a manor below, cleaving through the wing of another archangel. A second dragon cast forth a stone statue of a goddess, driving it into the archangel's head, shattering the skull. All across the sky, the dragons were fighting, using the city as their weapons.

  We do not defeat the hosts of Saraph with our dragonfire, Lucem thought wryly, but with the monuments we built for them as slaves.

  "Requiem rises, Requiem rises!" the dragons chanted as the last archangel fell, shattering against the city, then going dark.

  Yet the cheers died quickly.

  In the south they flew, only several miles away now—a host of harpies, hiding the sky. Their voices cried out, shrill, thirsty, promising death.

  Lucem's heart sank.

  "Fly, dragons of Requiem!" cried Meliora, streaming above, and blew her white pillar skyward. "Fly with me—over the sea! Fly after my light."

  Leaving the city, leaving their dead, leaving the continent of Terra, the dragons of Requiem fl
ew across the water—a nation escaping their centuries of captivity, a nation heading home. Behind them, the hosts of darkness cried out and laughed and buzzed and hid the sun behind their wings.

  ISHTAFEL

  He stood on the coast, licked his lips, and watched them flee across the sea into the northern distance.

  "Good, Meliora, good," Ishtafel whispered. "Let your hope build. Fly toward your home. Dream of Requiem. Very soon now, just as you think you've grasped your dream in your claws . . . I'll be there to snatch it away." He clenched his fists. "Just as you snatched her away from me."

  He cringed in sudden pain, the memories of Reehan filling him. His strong, noble, vicious Reehan—a great light among the immortals. Ishtafel had been fighting for five hundred years, and he had never met a warrior as deadly and proud as his Reehan.

  I would have married you, he thought. I would have made you my queen, the mother of my children, and damn the royal blood of my line. He shut his eyes. But they murdered you. The weredragons. They took you from me, my most precious prize.

  Ishtafel looked around him at this city on the northern coast of Terra, the hot continent where Saraph had first risen. The city, once a jewel of the empire, lay in ruins around him. Palaces, silos, temples, manors—all lay shattered. Palm trees, vineyards, gardens—all had burned. The slaves of this city had escaped with the reptilian horde, leaving the corpses of seraphim—corpses the harpies were now consuming. The rancid creatures bustled about the ruins like carrion crows, guzzling the dead. Ishtafel had allowed them this meal, a feast before the slaughter. The ichor would strengthen them before the great war to end all wars, the extermination of Requiem.

  "I've never loved another soul, Reehan, and I've never met any stronger woman . . . until my sister was born. Until Meliora."

  Reehan had fought with him against the weredragons—and fallen. He had thought her strong. Perhaps he had been wrong. Bloodthirsty, rabid, and beautiful, yes—but ultimately not strong enough.

  But Meliora . . . his sweet Meliora . . .

  Once Ishtafel had thought his sister not even capable of strength—like expecting a kitten to hunt as a tigress. Meliora had always been like a pet to him, a sweet little princess to laugh with, play with in the gardens, to listen to her silly songs and chatterings about butterflies, cupcakes, and fairy tales. He had at first recoiled from Mother's request that he should marry his sister, had agreed only to preserve the royal blood of their dynasty.

  "And then . . . then the kitten roared," he whispered.

  When Meliora had first defied him, it had surprised Ishtafel, then enchanted him. Suddenly the naive girl had shown her bite, and he had begun to see her not as a mere womb but as a prize to conquer. And when she had revealed herself to be half weredragon, tainted with the very blood of the beasts who had slain Reehan . . .

  "I can think of no sweeter prize than you, sweet sister. I can think of no greater joy than fighting you, breaking you, making you pay for all the sins of your people. The more you defy me, the more of my hosts that you slay, you prove your womb even worthier for my seed."

  Finally, here on the coast, his archangels slain around him, Ishtafel saw Meliora for what she truly was—a conqueror, a killer, his sister.

  You and I, Meliora—the two greatest killers this new Edinnu has ever known. How I will enjoy breaking you!

  Creaks sounded behind him, and Ishtafel turned to see Kelaksha, Queen of the Harpies, approaching. The creature was massive, as big as the mightiest dragon, walking on talons that cracked the cobblestones. The harpy, oldest among them, lowered her withered head toward Ishtafel. That head was as large as a curled-up man, wrinkled and covered in boils and hairs. Cruel eyes, no larger than his, stared from folds of flesh. Serpents coiled on her head instead of hair, and she opened her mouth, revealing a white tongue and dagger-like fangs. The stench of her breath assailed Ishtafel—the stench of the rotten bodies Kelaksha had been consuming.

  "The sea is wide, Master," the harpy hissed. Rot dripped from her mouth with every word. "It is too far to cross."

  Ishtafel stood facing the massive beast. He was barely taller than her talons. He reached out a metal-encased hand and caressed the withered cheek of the harpy.

  "You were the first, were you not?" Ishtafel asked. "The first creature the Eight Gods created, their failed attempt at life?"

  Kelaksha stared at him with those small, pale eyes. Upon her head, the hair of serpents hissed and stared too.

  "I was the first," she hissed, saliva dripping down to burn holes into the cobblestones of the city.

  "How must it feel," Ishtafel said, "to be considered a shame, a failure, a deformity? To spend thousands of years imprisoned because you are ugly?" He stroked her bristly cheek. "To be without pride, without a home?"

  The harpy bristled. Her dark wings spread out, dripping rot from their oily feathers. Her talons dug deep into the earth. Her hair of serpents shrieked.

  "The gods are cruel. But you give us a home, Master. You see our strength."

  Ishtafel had no more eyebrows within his face of metal, but he raised what remained of the burnt, swollen flesh above his eyes. "Do I, my dear? These ruins? This continent? No, my sweetness, for you and your kind are far too foul and rancid to live in Terra, the great continent of the south. Requiem will be your home. Across the sea, in the cold north, you will reign above the corpses of the weredragons. But only, Queen of Harpies, if you dare fly across the sea. If you prove yourself weak . . ." He hefted his lance. "I will make you miss your prison in Edinnu, and I will make you think the Eight Gods merciful."

  The harpy hissed and beat her wings. Her talons shattered stones, and she rose toward the sun, crying out in fury. Across the coastal ruins, the other harpies rose like flies disturbed from a carcass, darkening the sky, raining their rot. Ishtafel rose with them, burnt wings churning smoke.

  "To the sea!" he cried. "To the greatest flight of our lives, a flight the poets will sing of! To war! To victory! To Requiem!"

  The sea was wide. Even flying with all their speed, it would take three days and nights to cross. There would be no food, no water, no rest along the way, and Ishtafel knew that many of his harpies—the weak ones to be culled—would fall along the way, and the sea would bury their shame.

  But for those who survived awaited their greatest trophy.

  "The extermination of a race," Ishtafel whispered as he flew. "The genocide of Requiem in their very homeland, and their flesh to feed our bellies.

  They flew across the ruins and beach, and the sea spread below them. The harpies and their snakes screeched and clawed the air, and their wings beat in a storm. Ishtafel flew at their lead, a god of metal, wings spread wide.

  Soon, Meliora. He smiled thinly. Soon I will feed your limbs to the harpies . . . and the rest of you will be mine.

  The sea spread to the horizon, and beyond it . . . the land of weredragons.

  JAREN

  The nation of Requiem flew over the sea, and Jaren flew at their lead, Meliora sleeping on his back.

  For days now, Meliora had flown at the head of the camp, daring not sleep for more than brief moments. For days, she had blown her pillar of white fire, leading her people in their exodus.

  "Sleep now, my daughter," Jaren whispered, looking over his shoulder at her. "I will lead them onward as you rest."

  Behind them spread their ancient nation—the Vir Requis flying between sky and water, spreading out for miles. Jaren had heard many tales of Old Requiem, had even read the old scrolls which Queen Kalafi had kept in her chambers. He knew the story of Requiem from its founder, King Aeternum, to its captivity in Saraph. Never in its history had so many dragons flown together, had this entire, ancient race risen in a single great flight.

  My ancestor, King Aeternum, founded a small tribe of only several souls . . . and now we are as plentiful as grains of sand upon the beach, flying to our ancient homeland that Aeternum gave us.

  It was a day of great history, of uprising, of danger
, yet Meliora seemed suddenly like a child, almost peaceful as she slept on his back. Her body was cut and bruised, thinner than it had ever been. Her cheek rested on her hands, and her hair was growing back, still barely long enough to cover her ears, soft and gold. Even as she slept, her halo crackled, a low flame that warmed Jaren's scales. She wore humble burlap, and a string of beads adorned her neck, made from the clay and bitumen of Tofet. Some in Requiem had offered her fine gowns of muslin and silk, taken from the sacked city of Keleshan, but Meliora had refused the garb.

  "I wore kalasiri gowns as a princess of Saraph," she had told her people. "Today let me wear rough burlap and clay beads, for I am a freed slave, a daughter of Requiem, and these garments have more nobility than any fine imperial raiment."

  Meliora was descended of two noble houses—the Thirteenth Dynasty of Saraph and House Aeternum of Requiem—and she bore their nobility in her countenance, her conduct, and her courage.

  "But now rest, Meliora," Jaren whispered. "Now sleep. For the road ahead is still long."

  He knew that many in the camp wanted to crown Meliora, to name her Queen of Requiem, yet she had refused. Not until they arrived in Requiem, until they stood in the light of King's Column, would they choose another to rule them.

  Let her just be my daughter until then, Jaren thought.

  He returned his eyes forward, staring across the water. The sea now spread to all horizons, and Terra was no longer visible in the south. No Vir Requis had ever left that southern continent, not in five hundred years, but according to their stories, Requiem lay ahead. Still distant. Still several days of flight away—the weak riding on the strong. But awaiting them. Their ancient homeland.

  "Requiem," Jaren whispered.

  He wondered what they would find there. Hosts of seraphim and beasts they could not imagine? Piles of rubble? Perhaps even other Vir Requis, some who had survived the slaughter and captivity five centuries ago?