She began tossing sand onto the flames that shielded Beelzebub and Laila. Her angel troops helped, but could do little to stifle those flames. Horror burned inside Bat El, for she knew now that Laila had not come here for Zarel. It was not the Demon Queen she had emerged to face. Why couldn't you run, Laila? Why couldn't you just flee to the forest? She kept tossing sand into the fire.
With a crackle and burst of smoke, the fires suddenly guttered, flickered, and died. Bat El blinked, the smoke and heat blinding her. When she could see again, she froze, unable to move. The crowds too froze, gasped, and stood staring. Beelzebub, King of Hell, and Laila, daughter of Lucifer, lay in a pool of blood. Beelzebub lay on his back, eyes staring toward the sky, unblinking, lifeless. Laila lay against him, as if they were lovers in sleep, embraced. Blood flowed from Laila's chest.
A sob fled Bat El's lips. For a moment it seemed that Laila too was dead, but then Bat El saw the half-breed's lips moving, whispering. Her halo of fire guttered like a dying candle. She's still alive.
The angels and demons stared from a distance, not daring to approach. Bat El alone rushed to Laila's side. She knelt by her half-sister, weeping. Blood covered Laila's breast, soaking her clothes. More blood stained her pale, ashy face, and her black hair clung to her brow with sweat.
"Laila," Bat El said, "I'm here."
Laila tried to whisper, but her words were silent. Bat El placed her arm under Laila and cradled her, holding cloth against her wounds. The cloth turned red.
"My baby sister," she said, "you're going to be okay. I'm going to heal you."
Laila lay in Bat El's arms, her skin so pale, her eyes unfocused, her hair damp with sweat and blood. The half-demon blinked weakly and struggled to raise her hand, to place it in Bat El's palm. She opened her lips and tried to talk, but no sound came out. She coughed, then managed to whisper. "Is Volkfair okay?"
Bat El turned her head and looked. The great black wolf was dead, pierced with shrapnel and demon claws, burned with fire. She nodded. "Volkfair is fine," she said to Laila. "We healed him."
"But you cannot heal me," Laila said, skin white, lips colorless, eyes glassy. "I am banished from Heaven. Demon blood flows through my veins and out of my wounds. Forever has God's grace passed over me, and forever would the healing godlight be forbidden to me."
Bat El wept. She could say nothing. Bat El had always been able to heal her brethren, to wash away the wounds of this war with godlight and piousness, but Laila spoke truth. Here lay one whom God's love would not heal. She kept her hands pressed against Laila's wounds, the blood trickling between her fingers, mingling with her tears.
Laila turned her head weakly, staring toward Michael with blurred eyes. "Michael," she whispered. "Come to me, please."
The archangel stood between the ancient ruins, arms crossed, gazing upon the scene. He hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and knelt by Laila, the fire of her guttering halo reflecting in his armor. He clasped Laila's hand. Her clawed, pale hand seemed so small in his large, calloused one.
"Laila," he said softly.
She licked her lips. "Take Earth," she said to him. "I give it to you. Make it a good place for Volkfair to live. Give him a forest, where he can run and hunt and be as a king. Michael—"
But Laila said no more. Her breath died, her eyes stilled, and it seemed to Bat El that, for the first time, peace flowed over her sister.
Bat El let her chin fall to her chest, and she wept, her hair covering her face, Laila in her arms.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Upon the Mount of Olives they stood, rows of angels, thousands of them, the sunlight glinting against their iron armor and spearheads. Around them flowed the ruins of Jerusalem, biblical ruins kindled with sunlight, weedy, fluttering with birds. The city was quiet today, and even the birds seemed subdued, as if they too knew to grieve. For thousands of years had the living buried the dead upon this hill, from ancient days when olive trees grew here, to this war of Heaven and Hell. We bury this war here today too, Bat El thought, among the countless bodies.
They carried Laila's body upon a wooden litter, wrapped in white shrouds. A soldier's funeral. Dressed in unadorned white, her hair hidden in a cowl, Bat El carried one end of the litter, staring forward blankly, feet silent upon the pebbly path that led to the grave. Michael carried the other end of the litter, dressed in his ancient armor, a white rose pinned to his breast, Heaven's flower of mourning. They bore the litter between the rows of angels, the sunlight on them.
They reached the grave, dug by an olive sprig. Once olive trees had covered these hills, burned away in war. They will grow again, Bat El thought. She and Michael lifted Laila to place her underground, by the body of her wolf. She felt so light in Bat El's arms. As they tossed soil into the grave, Bat El stared down with dry eyes, watching the earth cover Laila's shroud. She had no tears left.
"Let a soul torn in half, outcast among the living, rest now in the silence of peace," she whispered. "May angel wings and godlight, forbidden in your life, carry you to your endless sleep. Goodbye, Laila, princess of the night."
A tear then did run down her cheek, and Bat El lowered her head and closed her eyes. You won't feel torn anymore, Laila. You'll never feel pain or fear again.
Bat El walked alone that afternoon through the silent, still streets of Jerusalem. No more demons filled this city, and no more ash covered the sky. Flowers grew between cracked cobblestones, birds sang, and weeds grew from the walls. She had the city to herself, and Bat El wandered the ancient streets, the biblical walls, these old hills. She remembered her first days in this city, seeking Laila through streets where demons roamed, troops of angels at her sides. Most of those angels were dead now. Nathaniel was gone, so was Raphael. The demons had taken Beelzebub underground, to bury him in Hell.
So many gone.
Bat El lowered her head. "Goodbye, Beelzebub," she whispered. "Goodbye, Laila." The two loves of her life, taken from her in one day. Bat El sat down on a fallen wall, looking up at the sunlight, the birds who flew from ruins to ruins, pecking for seeds.
That night, she stood with Michael on the wall of the Crusader fort, staring to the sea. The demons were gone from the fort, but to Bat El, it would forever be the place where Beelzebub imprisoned her, then loved her. The waves rolled against the beach, whispering in the darkness. The wind from the sea blew salt against Bat El's lips, brought a chill to her bones, and ruffled her hair. She wrapped her wings around her for warmth. Michael stood by her, for once not wearing his armor, his lance gone. The flames had washed away from the world. The forces of Hell had retreated into their pits to mourn their master. Heaven had won its war, but to Bat El, the world seemed more horrible than ever, more frightening and cold. For a long time, she stood silently by Michael, watching the waves.
"So what now?" she finally asked. "We usher in an era of peace and beauty and holiness to Earth? An era with no demons or evil?"
Michael sighed. He stared into the sea, and was silent for so long, that Bat El thought he would not respond. He looked so much like his brother to her. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low, she had to lean toward him to hear. "Do you really believe that, Bat El?"
She raised her eyebrows. "Of course I do. That's what we always fought for, for twenty-seven years here on Earth, for thousands of years since Lucifer's rebellion, for thousands of years since the first sins of mankind. Now is our time to bring in truth and light and build the kingdom of God on Earth." Her eyes were moist. "What else have so many died for?"
Michael smiled, then sighed again, his smile gone as fast as it had come. He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked down at her. "Bat El, Laila was never Lucifer's daughter. I lied to you."
She stared at him. Her heart thumped, and a tremble took her knees. "What do you mean?"
He looked back toward the sea. The waves were almost invisible in the night; Bat El could see only crests of foam where starlight caught them. Michael placed his hands against the fort's crenellation
s, lowering his head. "I'm sorry, Bat El. I know my story hurt you and many people. Laila was your full sister, born of both your mother and father. She was purely of Heaven, and no demon blood ever flowed through her."
Bat El's head spun, and the fort seemed to sway beneath her. She too placed her hands against the battlements, for fear that she'd fall. She laughed mirthlessly. "You're crazy, Michael. Have you seen Laila? Bat wings grew from her back, like a demon's. Fire burned in her eyes and haloed her brow. Evil filled my sister, alongside her goodness. How could demon blood not have been in her?"
"Was there demon blood in Beelzebub? In Lucifer?" Michael shook his head. "Angels too, they were; angels who turned evil, fallen and banished. Laila was born with bat wings. She was born with fangs and claws, born different than other angels. The godlight burned her. So we made up a story, to protect our vision of what Heaven should be, to maintain our purity in the eyes of Earth and Hell. We lied. We said that it was Lucifer who fathered her when he raped your mother. It was easiest for everyone to believe. So we hid the truth."
Bat El was crying now, trembling, weeping like she could not when they buried her sister. She wrapped her arms around Michael and cried against his chest. "And what is the truth?" she said, tears on her cheeks and lips.
Michael took a long breath. "That there is evil inside all of us, inside of me, inside of you, inside all angels." He stroked her hair. "A kingdom of godlight and piousness? There is no good and evil, Bat El; only men, demons, and angels trying to make sense of a big mess."
The waves whispered over the sand and lapped the boulders below. The clouds moved in the wind, and Bat El saw the stars, their light gentle, glistening against the water. Suddenly the starlight seemed so bright to her, she ached. She did not think she could bear it.
She stared at the waves, haunted, numb. Michael took her hand. "Let's go back inside, Bat El," he said. "We'll have some brandy. Let's go back home."
* * * * *
It began to rain. Michael lit a fire in the fireplace, then poured himself and Bat El glasses of brandy. They sat at his oak desk, listening to the fire and rain. Bat El held her glass with both hands, looking at the golden spirits, not drinking.
This is where I first told Michael that my sister returned to Jerusalem, she remembered. Here is where this all started, and here it ends, in this room of lies and secrets.
"Michael," she said quietly, looking into her glass. She licked her lips.
"Yes, Bat El?" He sat looking into the flames.
Bat El ran her fingers around her glass, then placed them on her belly. "What would a real half-breed be like? A child born of an angel mother, whose father truly was the demon lord of Hell?"
He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows. He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think I want to know. Why do you ask?"
She looked at him. "Michael... I'm pregnant."
Acknowledgements
I'd like to thank a few people for their help with Flaming Dove.
Thank you, Elvira Orlando, for reading the early draft, encouraging me to publish it, and helping with every step along the way.
Thank you, Janelle DeCelis, for your thoughts on the rough draft, and for long conversations about the characters.
Thank you, Timothy Lantz, for your beautiful cover art.
Thank you, Mark Prins, for your thorough edit of the manuscript.
Thank you, beta readers Jo-Anne Odell and Brenda Gath.
For help getting that first chapter just right, thank you Charlene, David, Kristin, Mike, Mindy, Ori, Rebecca, and Tullio.
NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON
Standalones:
Firefly Island (2007)
The Gods of Dream (2010)
Flaming Dove (2010)
Misfit Heroes:
Eye of the Wizard (2011)
Wand of the Witch (forthcoming)
Song of Dragons:
Blood of Requiem (2011)
Tears of Requiem (2011)
Light of Requiem (2011)
KEEP IN TOUCH
www.DanielArenson.com
[email protected]
Facebook.com/DanielArenson
Twitter.com/DanielArenson.com
BLOOD OF REQUIEM
SONG OF DRAGONS, BOOK ONE
by
Daniel Arenson
Song of Dragons, an epic fantasy series by Daniel Arenson, tells a story of blood, steel, and dragonfire.
BOOK ONE: BLOOD OF REQUIEM
Long ago stood the kingdom of Requiem, a land of men who could grow wings and scales, breathe fire, and take flight as dragons. Requiem ruled the sky.
But Dies Irae, a tyrant leading an army of griffins, hunted Requiem's people, burned their forests, and shattered their temples. Requiem fell. This ancient land now lies in ruin, its halls crumbled, its cries silenced, its skeletons littering the burned earth.
In the wilderness, a scattering of survivors lives in hiding. The griffins still hunt them, and every day promises death. Will Requiem's last children perish in exile... or once more become dragons and fly to war?
Here's an excerpt from Blood of Requiem:
War.
War rolled over the world with fire and wings.
The Vir Requis marched. Men. Women. Children. Their clothes were tattered, their faces ashy, their bellies tight. As their cities burned behind them, they marched with cold eyes. All had come to fight this day: the young and the old, the strong and the wounded, the brave and the frightened. They were five thousand. They had no more places to hide.
The dying sun blazed red against them. The wind keened. Five thousand. The last of their race.
We will stand, we will fly, we will perish with fire and tooth, Benedictus thought, jaw clenched. Men will say: Requiem did not fade with a whimper, but fell with a thunder that shook the mountains.
And so he marched, and behind him his people followed, banners red and gold, thudding in the wind. Last stand of Requiem.
It was strange, he thought, that five thousand should move together so silently. Benedictus heard only thumping boots. No whispers. No sobs. No whimpers even from the children who marched, their eyes too large in their gaunt faces. The Vir Requis were silent today, silent for the million of their kin already dead, for this day when their race would perish, enter the realm of memory, then legend, then myth. Nothing but thudding boots, a keening wind, and a grumbling sky. Silence before the roar of fire.
Then Benedictus saw the enemy ahead.
The scourge of Requiem. Their end.
Benedictus let out his breath slowly. Here was his death. The death of these hunted, haunted remains of his kind, the Vir Requis who had once covered the world and now stood, still and silent, behind him.
A tear streamed down Benedictus's cheek. He tasted it on his lips—salty, ashy.
His brother's host dwarfed his own. Fifty thousand men stood ahead: swordsmen, horsemen, archers, all bedecked in the white and gold that Dies Irae had taken for his colors. They carried torches, thousands of fires that raised smoky pillars. Countless griffins flew over these soldiers, shrieking, their wings churning the clouds. The army shimmered like a foul tapestry woven with images of the Abyss.
Benedictus smiled grimly. They burned our forests. They toppled our cities. They chased us to every corner of the earth. If they force us to fight here, then we will die fighting well.
He clenched his fists.
War.
War crashed with blood and screams and smoke.
Benedictus, King of Requiem, drew his magic with a howl. Black wings sprouted from his back, unfurling and creaking. Black scales rippled across him, glinting red in the firelight. Fangs sprang from his mouth, dripping drool, and talons grew from his fingers. Soon he was fifty feet long, a black dragon breathing fire. Requiem's magic filled him, the magic of wings and scales and flame, the magic that Dies Irae lacked and loathed. Benedictus took flight, claws tearing the earth. His roar shook the battlefield.
Let them see me. Let them see B
enedictus the Black, for one final time under the sky, spreading wings and roaring flame.
Behind him, the Vir Requis he led changed form too. The solemn men, women, and children drew the ancient magic of their race, grew wings, scales, and claws. They too became dragons, as cruel and beautiful as the true dragons of old. Some became elder beasts missing scales, their fangs long fallen. Others were young, supple, their scales still soft, barely old enough to fly. A few were green, others blue, and some blazed red. A handful, like Benedictus, bore the rare black scales of old noble blood. Once the different colors, the different families and noble lines, would fight one another, would mistrust and kill and hate. Today they banded here, joined to fight Dies Irae—the young, the old, the noble and the common.
This night they fought with one roar.
The last Vir Requis, Benedictus thought. Not humans. Not dragons. Weredragons, the humans call us. Shunned. Today is our last flight.
War. With steel and flame.
Arrows pelted Benedictus, jabs of agony. Most shattered against his scales, but some sank into his flesh. Their tips were serrated, coated with poison that burned through his veins. He roared and blew fire at the men below, the soldiers his brother had tricked or forced into battle today. They screamed, cursed him, feared him; the Vir Requis were monsters to them. Benedictus swooped, lifted several soldiers in his claws, and tossed them onto their comrades. Spears flew. Flaming arrows whistled. Everywhere was blood, fire, and screaming.
War. With poison and pain.
Around him, the Vir Requis flew as dragons, the forms they always took in battle. They breathed fire and roared. Spears and arrows plucked the young from the skies. Their scales were too soft, their wings too small. They hit the ground, screaming, soon overcome with swordsmen who hacked them. Blood splashed. In death they resumed human forms; battered, bloodied, butchered children.
Flaming Dove: A Dark Fantasy Novel Page 26
