Pillars of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  "You are your own light, Elory. And a very bright one. And you are braver than I am, and you survived far greater hardships than I can imagine." Meliora squared her shoulders and raised her chin. "We will survive this too. The time comes upon us, only hours away. Our greatest battle. Our final battle. Ishtafel draws near."

  Elory stepped back. "Then let's dig the last graves. The old dead will rest before more join them."

  She shifted back into a dragon, sank her claws into the frozen soil, and began to dig a grave. Even using dragon claws, it was slow work, for the icy ground was hard as rock, and Elory strained to pull out each chunk.

  She had dug three feet deep when the grave collapsed.

  Frozen soil tumbled downward.

  Elory gasped and stared. She let fire fill her mouth, lighting the shadows.

  Meliora shifted into a dragon and peered down, lighting her own fire. "What is it?"

  Elory blasted down a short burst of flame. The fire shot into the grave . . . and into darkness beyond.

  "A tunnel," Elory whispered.

  She returned to human form and made to leap inside.

  "Wait," Meliora said. "We don't know if it's safe."

  Elory smiled at her sister, tilting over the edge. "As safe as a sky full of harpies?"

  "Fair enough." Meliora sighed. "Go on."

  Elory jumped into the tunnel. Dust rained around her, and for a moment she coughed. At first she saw nothing. But when Meliora leaped into the tunnel, the half-seraph's halo of fire lit the darkness.

  The tunnel walls were paneled with gray bricks. It was too narrow for a dragon but the perfect size for Elory and Meliora to stand abreast.

  "What is this place?" Meliora whispered, looking around, her halo crackling and casting its dancing light.

  "The fabled tunnels of Requiem!" Elory looked around with wide eyes. "I've heard of them. They say that the Vir Requis built these tunnels thousands of years ago, back in the Griffin Wars. In our stories in Tofet, we tell of the last Vir Requis survivors fleeing here from the griffins, of King Elethor fighting the cruel Solina here, and many other tales."

  Meliora nodded, and her face hardened. "Ishtafel would talk of tunnels. He lost somebody here, they whispered in the palace. A lover. Only the chatter of slaves and soldiers. I asked Ishtafel once about the tunnels of Requiem, about what happened to him here. He grew very pale and very quiet, and he refused to say more, and so I knew it was true. This is the place where his beloved was slain." She placed her hand upon the brick wall. "Well, perhaps not this spot exactly, but somewhere here in the underground. This is a sad place."

  "But also a place of wonder," said Elory, "if the tales are to be believed. They say that many old artifacts and books of Requiem were stored here." She squinted. "I see something. Come on!"

  "Wait—" Meliora began, but Elory was already racing down the tunnel.

  The tunnel stretched ahead, roughly a hundred yards, before opening up into a wide chamber. When Meliora stepped in after Elory, her halo cast its light.

  Both sisters gasped.

  "It's beautiful," Elory whispered, tears in her eyes.

  "It's a library." Meliora's eyes widened. "A library of Vir Requis books."

  The chamber was large as a temple's nave and lined with bookshelves. Countless books stood here. All were wrapped in green leather, and silver words appeared on their spines. Elory stepped deeper into the room and examined some of the books.

  "They're stories." She touched a spine reverently. "The stories of Requiem. Of her old days and heroes. Books of tales. Of songs. Of family lines." She spun toward Meliora. "Here is the greatest treasure of Requiem—all her lore. All those stories we would tell in Tofet were always missing pieces, but here is the full wealth of our nation's heritage. Do you know what this means, Meliora?"

  Her sister nodded. Her voice was barely a whisper. "That we can rebuild not only our halls but our lore. That we can restore the culture we lost."

  Elory spotted an archway leading into a second tunnel, and she began to walk. Meliora stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  "We don't have much time, Elory. He'll be here soon."

  Elory nodded, head lowered. She ached to explore these tunnels, to find their many treasures, the heritage of her nation. But Meliora was right. Ishtafel and his harpies perhaps were slower than dragons, since they needed rest along the way, unable to fly on one another's backs, but they were relentless in their pursuit. They would be here within hours. There would be a time for rebuilding Requiem after defending it.

  Elory was about to walk back with Meliora, to step out into the world, when a glint in the far tunnel caught her eye. Elory frowned.

  "Just one moment," she said and darted forth.

  She left the library behind, ran along the second tunnel, and entered another towering chamber. Her eyes widened and she gasped.

  "Bloody stars," Elory whispered.

  Meliora gasped. "Almost as beautiful as books."

  It was an armory. Thousands of suits of armor hung from the walls, their silvery breastplates engraved with birch leaf motifs. Thousands of green shields hung alongside them, emblazoned with the Draco constellation in silver. Finally, countless swords gleamed on racks, their pommels shaped as dragonclaws clutching hilts.

  "We need to get everyone in here," Elory whispered. "Now."

  She turned toward Meliora, and she saw that tears dampened her sister's eyes.

  "My brother flies here, thinking he'll meet a band of ragged exiles." Meliora bared her teeth and clenched her fists. "He will meet the great Royal Army of old."

  VALE

  Dawn rose over Requiem, shining on a cleansed King's Column, a forest of birch leaves, and thousands of soldiers in armor.

  Vale stood at their lead, wearing a full plate suit. Upon the breastplate were engraved three birch leaves, and his shield displayed the silver Draco constellation on a green field. At his side hung his sword, a heavy two-handed weapon with a dragonclaw hilt. Vale had never worn armor before, but it already felt like a second skin.

  Like the second skin Ishtafel now wears, he thought, a bad taste in his mouth.

  The Royal Army stood behind him, organized into the same units they had worked with back in Tofet. The bricklayers formed one brigade, the bitumen haulers another, and so on—thousands of laborers trained in ruthless discipline and strength, now soldiers.

  At Vale's right-hand side stood Elory. The girl was short and slim, barely larger than a child, but she too wore armor and bore a sword. At Vale's left stood Lucem, the legendary hero who had first defied the seraphim, and he too wore steel.

  "We fight with you, Vale," Lucem said, voice somber.

  "Always," said Elory.

  With them too stood Til Eleison, her long red hair blowing in the wind. One of only two Vir Requis who had avoided captivity and survived, she no longer wore her old patches of fur and rusted armor. Instead, she wore full plate armor, and stars adorned her shield. If anyone here was truly a warrior of Old Requiem, it was Til—she who had remained, who had survived, who had never stopped fighting for her nation.

  "I fight with you, Vale Aeternum," she said, gazing into his eyes, her cheeks pale and strewn with freckles. "Ever have the Eleisons fought alongside the Aeternum Dynasty, knights to the crown. Today let our old families fight together again."

  Ahead of them rolled the forest of birches, silent, still. Even the wind had died, and the snow glimmered under the sunlight like a field of stars.

  But soon they will be here, Vale thought. Soon these trees will burn.

  He turned to look behind him, and he saw King's Column soaring there, three hundred feet tall, the chains gone, the blood washed off its marble. It shone in the dawn, purest white, unblemished. The heroes Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei, survivors of the griffins, had found this column rising from ruin thousands of years ago, and even then it had been ancient. Its capital was shaped as rearing dragons, carved of marble, and upon it perched a true white d
ragon—Meliora.

  The heiress of Aeternum, half seraph but a true daughter of Requiem, seemed carved of marble herself, her scales shining. She gazed toward the south, watching, waiting. Above the white dragon, Issari's Star still shone, soon fading under the rising sunlight.

  But Vale knew that Issari still watched over him. He remembered his death upon the ziggurat, remembered the Priestess in White descending from the heavens to heal him.

  A great battle awaits you, she had told him. Live.

  And Vale knew that here—here in this forest, under Issari's light, was the great battle he had survived for. The battle to save their column. To restore their sky.

  Vale lowered his eyes and looked at his troops. Row after row of soldiers, all in armor, all bearing swords. All staring ahead. Waiting. Knowing that here, after all their struggles, their pain, that here was the battle of their lives. Elders stood here. Young men and women, some barely more than youths. Freed slaves. Proud defenders of their ancient realm.

  Vale spoke to them, voice ringing across the silent forest.

  "Children of Requiem! We stand in the light of our column. We stand upon holy ground, a free nation. Requiem restored. Yet an enemy flies forth to slay us, to shatter our column! For hundreds of years, this enemy enslaved us. And now we tell Ishtafel: We stand strong! We grew strong in the heat of Tofet. We remain strong in the cold of Requiem. Requiem lives, and we will always find our sky!"

  Vale drew and raised his sword. Thousands of warriors drew their own blades, a new forest of steel. Farther back, behind the column, stood the civilians of Requiem, hundreds of thousands of them, and while they had no weapons, they raised their fists in salute.

  Upon the column's capital, three hundred feet above the forest, Meliora tossed back her head and raised a pillar of white fire.

  From the south rose a foul stench and evil cry.

  Vale spun southward. His chest tightened and he gripped the hilt of his sword.

  They're here.

  He could not see them yet, but they were moving fast, their cries louder every moment. Hideous shrieks. The stench of rotting meat. The thud of oily wings. A sound like a storm.

  "We smell them, sisters!" rose a distant cry among them.

  "We smell the weredragons!"

  "They hide in the forest!"

  "They hide by their column!"

  "Break them, snap them, eat them, drink them!"

  The harpies cackled, screeched, cried out for blood and meat. Above them all rose a deeper voice. The voice of a man. Of a seraph. Of a god.

  "I see you, Meliora!" rose the voice of Ishtafel. "I've come to take you home."

  She is home, Vale thought. We all are.

  He summoned his magic and rose as a dragon.

  "Arise, dragons of Requiem!" he cried, soaring higher, emerging from the forest. "Today we fight. Today we die. A day of dragon's blood. A day of harpies crashing down. A day of sacrifice and victory. Requiem rises!"

  And from across the forest, they rose. Their armor, shields, and swords morphed with them, melting into their dragon bodies; they would reappear with their human forms should the battle move to the ground. But even as dragons, they wore armor—great spiked helmets, massive breastplates, and heavy greaves found underground—the armor ancient but still strong. The dragons rose. Soldiers. Elders. Even children. Today all of Requiem was an army. Today no man, woman, or child would remain hidden from war.

  Today Requiem rose in all her wrath.

  Dragons darkened the sky and hid the sun.

  Before them they flew, covering the south, swarming forth, a great nation of rot. A million harpies, buzzing, shrieking, spreading back for miles, each a beast devoted to murder, to the ripping of flesh, to the death of dragons. And before them all he flew, his armor burning bright in the dawn, casting back beams of light—a god of gold and steel, a god of beauty, of hatred, of death.

  Ishtafel.

  Here it begins, Vale thought. The greatest battle of our lives. Perhaps the greatest battle in Requiem's thousands of bloody years.

  And it began.

  The dragons stormed forth across the sky, soldiers in front, civilians behind, all roaring, wings beating in a storm. The harpies howled, charging, dripping rot, beating rancid wings.

  "Fire!" Vale roared and blasted his dragonfire.

  Across the front line, thousands of armored dragons—the vanguard, the Royal Army, the strongest in the nation—blasted forth a great curtain of flames, more fire than had ever burned above these woods. The great cloud of flame covered the sky, racing forth, a sea, a storm, a burning holocaust of Requiem's rage.

  The harpies changed form, arranging themselves in a massive wall, a hundred beasts high. Their maws opened, lined with fangs, and they spewed their ice. The icicles shot forth, longer and sharper than lances, wreathed in fog.

  Fire and ice slammed together.

  The sky seemed to crack.

  Steam blasted outward. Fire roared and showered down. Thousands of icicles made it through the inferno, dripping, and shrieked across the sky.

  One icicle drove into a dragon at Vale's side, piercing the beast's neck. Where a dragon had been, a woman fell, head nearly severed. More icicles flew all around him. Dragons roared, lost their magic, and rained toward the forest. A shard of ice, larger than a sword, scraped across Vale's side, chipping his scales. He barely felt the pain.

  "Burn them!" he shouted. "More fire!"

  Countless icicles stormed toward him. The frozen fog charged like a living beast.

  Thousands of flaming jets streamed forth in reply.

  The sky itself burned.

  Water bubbled.

  Steam burned dragons and they fell, clutching at their blazing armor. More icicles slammed into dragons, tearing through necks, chests, heads, ripping bellies open. Frost coated other dragons, freezing scales, eyes, hearts. The bodies rained, losing their magic in death. Hundreds of men and women fell, cracking the frozen trees below them.

  "Fire!" Vale shouted and blasted his flames.

  Across the front line, the soldiers of Requiem—men and women who for years had wielded pickaxes and borne baskets of bitumen—blasted forth their dragonfire with the fury of the southern sun. Elory, Lucem, Til, thousands of others—their fire roared with his.

  "Rise!" Vale cried. "Form a wall! Wall!"

  The fire and ice again slammed together.

  The dragons kept charging, rising higher, dipping lower, forming a wall of dragons from the treetops to the heavens. The hosts flew through the inferno of steam, smoke, fire, and ice and slammed together like worlds colliding.

  The sky cracked.

  Trees shattered below.

  All of Requiem shook.

  Within an instant, the front lines mashed together, each force driving into the other. Harpies crashed through dragons. Talons drove forth, longer than swords, ripping through scales, cracking dragon ribs, digging out innards. Wrinkled, warty heads spun around Vale, sprouting serpents. Rotted mouths opened, and fangs dug into dragons. The harpies laughed as they fought, tugged out organs, fed upon the wetness, fought again, coated in blood.

  Vale roared. He fought like he had never fought. Not over the City of Kings, not in the inferno of Tofet, not in his many battles journeying here had Vale fought with such fury, seen such bloodshed. He bellowed, crying out to his stars, blasting his fire. His flames washed over harpies. His tail swung into their wrinkly gray flesh. His claws tore open their breastplates and the skin beneath, and snakes fled their innards.

  They hurt him. Their fog washed across him, freezing his scales. Their talons scraped across his dragon-armor, denting the steel. Their snakes bit into his belly, and their shards of ice pierced his armor. Yet though he bled, Vale kept roaring, kept fighting, kept burning them down.

  All around him, the multitudes fought—a great song in the sky, a song of death, of shadow, of light, of rot, of fear, of ascension. Ice and fire danced together. Dragons and harpies rose to the heavens and
fell like rain.

  And all through the battle, he shone above, laughing, wings spread out—the god of gold and steel, the god of light, the lord of hosts, the King of Saraph and destroyer of Requiem. Ishtafel of the Thirteenth Dynasty. Burned. Rebuilt. His voice ringing across the sky, rising to a shriek, inhuman, the voice of crashing empires and drowning children, of shattering forests and shattering nations.

  "Here I capture you, dragons!" he cried. "Here I slay you. Here I shatter your column. Here Requiem will fall, here she will fade from all memory. Slay them, harpies! Slay them all and feed upon them."

  The world trembled and the sky wept. The forest burned. The nation of Requiem had fled here to find new life; here they would find a rededication of their kingdom or a death in battle. Here they all fought—from elders to children—and their fire rose together in crackling pillars, as bright as the marble column that rose behind them.

  LUCEM

  He wanted this to be a dream.

  Just a fever dream in his cave.

  He missed that cave now. He missed his wooden friends, his drawings on the wall, the river, the birds, the loneliness. This had to be just a nightmare. This could not be real.

  And yet still they flew around him. Countless dragons and harpies, blowing fire and ice. The faces seemed to float around Lucem: the bloated, wrinkled faces of crones, covered in warts, snakes on their heads, hissing at him, leering at him, mocking him.

  You will dance with us forever, Lucem. You will be as we are.

  Fear—overwhelming, all-consuming, colder than the icy fog of the creatures—washed over Lucem. His red scales clattered as he shook. Dragons died around him. Men, women, children—they all fell, breaking upon the trees of King's Forest. A carpet of the dead.

  Lucem tried to blow his fire, to kill the harpies, but he could barely even breathe.

  I have to run, he thought. I have to land in the forest, to run between the trees, to hide, to escape this place, to return to my cave.