A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3)

by Arenson, Daniel

  "Behold!" Leresy said. "I've brought you imperial gifts: Lanse Tilla Siren, the traitor who slew your daughter, and Relesar, the heir of Aeternum. It is I, your son, who captured them. They are yours, Father. Accept my gifts. All I ask is that you return me to your good graces. Name me your heir, and these prizes are yours."

  His heart thumped and his chest rose and fell. He had rehearsed this speech all day. His fingers trembled, and he took a shaky breath, expecting his father to beam, to embrace him, to shower him with love and approval.

  But Frey only stared silently, no emotion on his face.

  Leresy hissed. His breath rose to a pant. He pushed down with his foot, pressing Tilla's face hard against the tiles. The axehands knelt around him, holding the prisoners still. Frey only stared, eyes cold, saying nothing.

  "Well, Father?" Leresy demanded, able to wait no longer. "Here is your key to victory! Here is your vengeance, the prize you have sought for years. I brought you victory, I brought you Shari's killer, and I brought you Relesar. I brought you all that you've ever desired. Will you not speak?"

  Frey reached across the table. Leresy thought he'd grab the Genesis Scope, but instead, his hand clutched a meat cleaver. Finally he spoke.

  "Is that so, Leresy?" he said, his voice dripping the same old disgust. "Did you bring me all I've ever desired? What of my desire for a worthy son, a noble heir of my own blood?"

  Leresy pounded his chest. "I am here, Father! I've proven myself worthy. Reward me!"

  Frey lifted the meat cleaver and turned the blade, letting the torchlight glimmer against it. "Is that all you seek, Leresy? Rewards? A treat for a begging dog? You have spoken here of yourself, of your own vainglory, of the gifts you demand. Not once have you mentioned the glory of Requiem, the honor and strength of our empire. Even now, as the Resistance smashes against our walls, as blood and fire purifies our empire... even now, you only care for your own power."

  Leresy realized his error and his eyes watered. He screamed hoarsely, already knowing it was too late.

  "I care for you, Father!" His voice sounded too young to him, no longer the voice of a hero, but the voice of frightened child. "I brought these for you, for—"

  "For me?" Frey snorted. "I am a soldier. I fight for the eternal glory of Requiem. It is Requiem I serve, not my own hubris. It seems you've learned nothing from me. Still, after all the times I've disciplined you, you care only for yourself." He turned to stare at the axehands. "Men! Take the girl to the Red Tower. Chain her but do not torture her; that will be my pleasure. Take the boy down into my bedchambers. Chain him there; should Valien reach my halls, I would have him gaze upon the boy."

  The axehands bowed and hissed.

  "Yes, God of Dragons, Lord of Spiral."

  They retreated from the chamber, robes swaying, clutching the screaming and kicking prisoners.

  Leresy stood alone before his father.

  "Well, Father?" he demanded, tears in his eyes. "Will you say no more?"

  Frey fixed him with a glare. "What would you have me say?"

  Leresy snorted a laugh, but it sounded more like as a sob. "Thank you, son! You saved the empire! You made me proud!" Tears ran down Leresy's cheeks and his lips shook. "I love you, son. Welcome back to my court." He hated himself, but he couldn't stop his tears, and he couldn't stop his knees from shaking. "Any of those thing would do splendidly, Father. But you have no emotion in that rotten, shriveled-up organ you call a heart. Even now, as I won you the war, as I brought you all your desires, you only stare at me like... like I'm some worm. Like I'm nothing but a common soldier." He screamed, tears falling. "I am your son!"

  Frey stared at him silently for a long moment.

  "Are you quite finished?" he finally said. "Yes. Yes, you are my son. As shameful as that is to admit, it's true. I do not know why the gods have cursed me so. I had two strong children; one now lies dead, and the other flies against me. Alas, it is my son—my son, who should be my greatest warrior—who snivels here before me, weeping like a child. But yes, Leresy. Yes, you are my son. And yes, you brought me gifts that I desired. For that, you shall be rewarded."

  Leresy gasped. Hope sprang inside him, and he rubbed his eyes.

  "I... I will receive your grace?" he whispered.

  Frey lifted a whetting stone and began sharpening his cleaver. "When the battle is over, and we've crushed the Resistance, I will welcome you back into this city. I'll give you a small house to live in, somewhere... far in the shadows, out of my way. Perhaps in the slums around that brothel of yours. You would like that. And you shall be allowed to live out the rest of your days there, in the darkness, drunk and surrounded by your whores."

  Leresy took a step forward and raised his fists. "I demand more! I demand to live in this palace. I demand to be named your heir, Father!"

  Again Frey snorted. "My heir? I would sooner bed a peasant girl and name her whelp my heir than you." He fixed Leresy with a stare like stabbing daggers. "You will never be my heir. You will never be more than a miserable drunk. Now leave this palace. It is forbidden to you."

  Leresy stood speechless.

  His hands dropped to his sides.

  His mouth worked silently.

  Frey walked around him, heading toward the door. "And now I have a battle to win. I have a Resistance to crush. When I return with the head of this Valien, I expect to see you gone."

  Leresy fell to his knees. He reached out, grabbed his father's leg, and clung.

  "Father, please!" he said hoarsely. "I am your son!"

  Frey grunted, kicked himself free, and shoved Leresy down.

  "And so you keep reminding me," the emperor said. "It's a disgraceful truth I wish I could forget. If you have any honor, boy, fly out now against the Resistance and die in their fire. That is the greatest gift you could give me."

  With that, Emperor Frey exited his chambers, leaving Leresy in darkness, tears, and old clutching pain. He lay on the floor, punched the tiles, and screamed.

  VALIEN

  He ran up the stairs, scales clattering, and slammed into the palace doors. They creaked and stood strong. Valien cursed, stepped down a few steps, and ran again. He was a burly dragon, yet when he slammed into the palace doors again, he groaned and thought his bones would crack.

  "Valien, we can't hold them back much longer!" Sila shouted, standing upon the staircase. Ash, sweat, and lacerations covered the Tiran captain. He fired an arquebus, smoke blasted, and he spat.

  The staircase led from the Square of Cadigus, a cobbled expanse larger than most towns, to the palace gates. The remains of the Resistance covered the steps, swords and guns in hand. Looking upon them, Valien felt his heart sink.

  How many were left? Four hundred? Five? No more than that. Horror pounded through him. They had flown here with thousands... now only a handful remained.

  These surviving resistors were firing arquebuses. The smoke hung thicker than storm clouds. Only Kaelyn and Erry held no guns; they were shining Genesis Scopes in every direction, holding back the swarms.

  The Legions covered the city streets, the square below, and the sky above. Hundreds of thousands swarmed, a tightening noose, a puddle of scales and flames. Wherever the beams shone, imperial dragons fell from the sky. Wherever men charged in armor, swinging swords, arquebuses cut them down. Thousands fell. Their corpses covered the square in a demonic carpet of flesh. Yet for every legionary who died, more emerged. Cannons fired from within their ranks. Dragonfire blasted. Arrows flew. Every moment another resistor screamed and fell.

  Valien slammed into the palace gates again. At his sides, two other dragons, gruff warriors of the Resistance, charged with him. Yet the doors were too thick, their oak iron-banded; even three dragons could not break them.

  "Valien!" Kaelyn cried below, shining her Genesis Scope at a swooping battalion of dragons, sending them falling. "Valien, hurry!"

  He looked upon his forces and could barely breathe. They were trappe
d here; the enemy surrounded them, miles deep, a colony of ants surrounding a piece of fruit. More resistors fell, torn apart by cannons and claws. Soon they were down to four hundred men, then only three. Valien could feel those old hands clutching his throat again.

  We will all die.

  He tossed back his head and roared, blowing fire.

  Then we will die fighting.

  He beat his wings and soared. He shouted commands at the two dragons who fought by his side.

  "With me! Fly high."

  They ascended along the palace walls, leaving the doors below. The palace bricks blurred. Arrows fired from slits, clattering against them, and one sank into Valien's shoulder. He grunted but kept flying.

  A thousand imperial dragons howled above. Their claws reached out. Their maws opened, swaying in heat waves, smelters spilling fire.

  "Kaelyn," Valien shouted, "your beam!"

  He kept soaring, his warriors at his sides. The imperial dragons shot down. Fire blasted, and Valien winced and rose through the flame. One of his dragons screamed in the fire, lost his magic, and fell burning.

  "Kaelyn!"

  The Legions cackled above, their claws extended, their fangs bared, a shimmering cloud of steel and scale, and Valien kept soaring, flying into his death. Fire blazed, and his second warrior howled and fell.

  Valien winced, seconds from slamming into the enemy.

  Red light blazed.

  The Genesis Beam slammed against the horde.

  The imperial dragons lost their magic. Dozens tumbled down, screaming troops in steel.

  Just below the beam, Valien growled and kept soaring. Upon the stairs below, Kaelyn kept raising the beam, clearing a path through the sky.

  Through fire and smoke, Valien saw his target—the battlements of the palace hall. They overlooked the square, lined with cannons. Beyond them, Tarath Imperium rose from flames, but Valien did not care for that tower now. He shot toward the hall's crenellations.

  Cannons blasted his way and Valien banked, dodging the missiles, and rose higher. He blew his flames.

  Gunners screamed and fell ablaze. Some rolled upon the walls, clutching at their heated armor. Others tumbled off the battlements, living comets, burning and screaming before crashing onto the stairs below. Barrels of gunpowder exploded. The walls shook. Fires blasted out.

  Valien shot toward a cannon that stood between two merlons. Its gunners were busy reloading; one man was pressing a ramrod down the barrel, while another was already lighting the fuse. When they saw Valien charge toward them, a howling silver dragon, they leaped back and drew their swords.

  With a roar, Valien clawed them apart. They fell lacerated from the walls. Tail lashing, knocking back charging men, Valien grabbed the cannon.

  He roared. The barrel was still searing hot; it burned his feet. He grunted and beat his wings, struggling to rise. The cannon must have weighed more than he did. He grimaced and lifted the gun into the air. With two great flaps of his wings, he cleared the battlements and began his descent.

  Dragons howled and charged around him. Kaelyn was blazing her beam, carving him a path through the horde. Arrows flew. Two slammed into Valien's chest, and he roared and nearly dropped the cannon. He plummeted down, nearly at a free fall. The stairs rushed up toward him. Hardly three hundred resistors remained fighting; the rest lay dead upon the steps. Groaning, the searing barrel clutched in his claws, Valien stretched his wings wide. He slowed his fall and dropped the cannon onto the stairs, its muzzle pointing at the door. It came free from his grip with bits of seared flesh, cracking the stone steps.

  "Clear the way!" he howled.

  Between him and the door above, arquebusers moved aside, firing their weapons at the encroaching Legions. Bleeding and burnt, nearly too weary for fire, Valien managed a puff of flame, igniting the cannon's fuse.

  He winced and stumbled aside.

  The cannon fired.

  Smoke blasted out, covering the stairs. The cannon flew backward, tumbling down the staircase, crashing into charging legionaries. Its projectile slammed into the palace gates.

  With flame and a shower of splinters, the doors crashed open.

  Valien bellowed and raced up the stairs.

  "Charge!" he shouted, his voice a mere rasp, but loud enough to carry across the battle. "Resistance, into the palace. Death to Cadigus!"

  The remains of his forces howled, three hundred scarred and burnt souls. They charged. They swung swords and screamed for blood.

  "Death to Cadigus!"

  Shouting, Valien ran through the smoke. Still in dragon form, he crashed through the shattered doors and into the palace hall.

  Ahead in the shadows, palisades of columns held a grand, vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of flying dragons. A mosaic of aerial battles covered the floor, depicting wyverns and phoenixes. Far ahead rose the Ivory Throne, but tonight it stood barren.

  Between Valien and the throne, hissing and glaring, stood a hundred dragons. Each wore an iron mask like a muzzle; the metal was bolted on to the flesh. Each was missing his front paw; instead, their legs ended with raised axe heads.

  "Hail the red spiral!" the deformed beasts cried. "Hail Frey, God of Dragons!"

  Valien blasted his dragonfire.

  His flames filled the hall.

  The axehands shrieked and charged.

  With a roar, a green dragon shot into the hall, flew over Valien's head, and blazed a beam of red light.

  The Genesis Beam fell upon the deformed dragons. They shrieked and ran afoot, men clad in black robes, swinging their axes.

  Valien roared his flames. Behind him, dozens of resistors swarmed into the hall, running between and around his legs. Their arquebuses fired. The rounds tore into the axehands; the dark priests fell, writhed, and burned.

  "Find the emperor!" Valien shouted, running into the hall. He whipped his head from side to side, blowing fire. Between the columns, dozens of guards were charging his way, swinging swords and firing arrows. His flames washed them. His gunners cut them down.

  "Where's Frey?" Kaelyn shouted at his side, still in dragon form, her beam clutched in her claws.

  He growled and stared at the throne. It was so close, only a hundred yards away, rising from fire. He could run over and seize it. But no; without Rune here, and without Frey's body, it was an empty prize.

  "Kaelyn, climb the tower," he said. "Take half our forces with you. Seek Frey there."

  She nodded. "What of you?"

  Arrows and iron rounds blazed around them. Legionaries fell dead at their feet.

  "I'll search the ground complex," Valien said. He swung his tail and sent a legionary flying.

  As the fires roared and the blood spilled, she met his gaze, and for an instant they stood still, staring at each other. Her eyes glimmered, those hazel eyes that had guided him for years, the beacons of his soul, his starlight in the dark. He loved her, and he saw the love in her eyes, and he knew her thoughts. They were the same thoughts he himself was thinking.

  I might never see you again.

  He wanted to hold her, to speak of his love, to share a last embrace. But the battle raged. Soldiers fell dead all around. One arrow flew between them, and another snapped against his scales.

  "Valien," she whispered.

  "Go!" he said. "Climb the tower and find him."

  She nodded, shifted into human form, and ran between the columns. She shouted orders, and men ran behind her, firing guns and clearing a path through the Legions.

  Valien grunted, spun around, and flamed three charging men. He shifted into human form too, drew his sword, and bared his teeth. About a hundred resistors stood around him.

  "Sila!" he shouted to the sailor. "Take your men and search the dungeons. Everyone else, follow me. We'll find the bastard."Snarling, he raced between the columns, leading fifty warriors. He swung his sword, and gunners fired around him. They moved into a corridor, cutting men down, splashing t
he walls with blood. They fought for every step.

  As he killed, Valien could not stop seeing her eyes in his mind, and the terror ignited his blood. He might die this day. He might find Rune dead in the dungeons. He might never seize the throne. But most of all he feared for Kaelyn. He roared, swung his sword, and carved a path of corpses.

  KAELYN

  She ran upstairs, swinging her sword and cutting men down.

  Fifty resistors ran behind her. Two ran at her sides; the stairway was just wide enough for three to climb abreast. Legionaries shouted above, running down toward them, swinging longswords.

  "Fire!" Kaelyn shouted.

  The resistors at her sides pulled their triggers. Their arquebuses blasted; they were so loud her ears rang. Four legionaries crashed down above, pierced with the rounds. Two more raced her way, and Kaelyn swung Lemuria. Her sword crashed through one's armor, severing his arm. She parried the second man's blow, swung down, and cleaved his helm. Their bodies crumbled, and Kaelyn ran across them, climbing higher.

  "Men, swap!" she cried.

  The men at her sides, their guns smoking, retreated down the staircase to reload. Two more fighters, their guns loaded and ready, replaced them.

  "Hail the red spiral!" cried legionaries above, swarming downstairs.

  "Fire!" Kaelyn said again, and two more guns blasted. Two more men retreated to reload, and two more, their guns ready, replaced them. Kaelyn screamed and thrust her sword. She trampled corpses and climbed on.

  She climbed for hours, it seemed, corkscrewing up the tower. Her men kept firing and retreating, moving in a constant cycle. Their guns cut down the legionaries, blasting through armor, killing two—sometimes three—men deep. All those legionaries who escaped the gunfire met Kaelyn's blade.

  A hundred cuts covered her. A gash on her thigh bled—the same place Shari had wounded her almost two years ago, the night she had flown to Lynport, seeking Rune. She howled, driving onward, climbing floor by floor. Her limbs shook and her ears rang, but she fought on.