"It's over, Dies Irae," Benedictus shouted over the shrieking nightshades and humming Beams, his voice almost lost. "We have the Beams. It's over."
A nightshade still wreathed him, but it was hissing and squirming. The nightshade holding Lacrimosa spun around her, grunting. The Beams did not shine on them directly, but the light still burned them.
"Mother!" Agnus Dei cried above. She, Gloriae, and Kyrie had almost reached the amphitheatre now. The Beams' rays were moving down the rows of seats, like light through a temple window travelling across a floor.
"When the light reaches you, you're dead, Irae!" Lacrimosa screamed. "You've filled yourself with nightshades, and now you're going to burn."
Dies Irae was staring at the dragons. The nightshades around him squirmed and grunted and screeched. The snakes of his wig blistered, then burst. His good eye blazed, and his skin seemed stretched nearly to ripping. The beams had moved down the tiers of seats, leaving seared, dead nightshades. They were now travelling across the arena floor, stirring the dust. The beams were a hundred feet away, then fifty, then ten, then five....
Dies Irae screamed. An inhuman scream. The defeated cry of a demon.
He turned to stare at Lacrimosa, his good eye burning, his empty eye socket gaping.
"We will meet again, Lacrimosa," he said.
Then he turned and stabbed Benedictus through the chest.
"Ben!" Lacrimosa screamed.
"Father!" came a cry above.
"Ben! Ben!"
The nightshades wrapped around Benedictus burned and fled. The nightshades around Lacrimosa smoked and flew from her. She fell to her knees, weeping.
"Ben!"
She saw Dies Irae open a trapdoor in the arena floor, that door tigers, bulls, and other beasts would once emerge from. He disappeared into the tunnels. Lacrimosa rose to her feet, ran to her husband, and knelt by him. She held him.
"My love." Tears streamed down her cheeks.
He lay in her arms, the sword buried to the hilt in his chest. He looked upon her with glassy eyes, and a soft smile touched his lips.
"L— Lacrimosa," he whispered, blood in his mouth.
The beams washed them. Nightshades screamed and flew around them. Lacrimosa clutched her husband, touched his cheeks, wept into his hair.
"Please. Don't leave me."
He held her hand. "Watch over the young ones," he whispered. "I love you, Lacrimosa, daughter of Requiem."
Sobs shook her body. She embraced him. "I love you forever, my lord."
When his head fell back, and his eyes stopped blinking, Lacrimosa raised her head and howled, a dragon's howl, a cry she thought could rend the heavens. She did not know how much time passed. Nightshades screamed. Beams blazed. There was a great battle. Lacrimosa was aware of nothing but her husband. She cradled his body in her arms.
It seemed that ages passed, the turns of seasons and the reigns of kings, as she held her husband, until the nightshades fled the world and only soft light washed her.
Still holding her king, Lacrimosa looked up. In the soft light she saw her daughters approach, walking in human forms, their steps slow. Kyrie walked behind them, bathed in dying light.
The Beams dimmed.
Darkness covered the world.
Agnus Dei saw her father, and she let out a cry like a wounded animal. She ran forward and knelt by his body, weeping. She held his hand, saw that he was dead, and cried to the sky.
Gloriae stared, face pale, silent. Her mouth was open, her eyes confused, shocked, her hands open.
Kyrie fell to his knees by his king, and shook him, and cried his name. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Dada!" Agnus Dei cried through her sobs. Lacrimosa held her, desperate, digging her fingers into her shoulders. Kyrie embraced them. Gloriae knelt by them, looking around, dazed. They wept as one, trembling, their tears joining, falling upon the body of Benedictus.
"My king," Lacrimosa whispered to him. "My husband. My love."
"Dada," Agnus Dei whispered, running her hands over his face.
Lacrimosa kept waiting for Benedictus to open his eyes, to cough, to wake up, to hold her. She kept checking his breath, again and again, finding it gone, his life fled from her forever.
Eyes blurred, she saw Volucris lead the surviving griffins into the arena. So few remain. Blood covered them. The beasts saw her holding Benedictus, tossed their heads back, and cried in mourning. Their shrieks thudded against her ears, and Lacrimosa sobbed and held her husband.
Arrows flew. They clattered against the ground around them. Lacrimosa looked up, and through her tears, she saw soldiers streaming into the arena. They fired arrows and drew swords.
Agnus Dei and Kyrie howled, shifted, and blew fire. Gloriae and Lacrimosa soon joined them. Flames filled the arena that night, and blood washed it, and dozens of soldiers died by fang and claw. But many more soldiers streamed in, a city full of them, and Lacrimosa knew they could not win this fight.
She lifted Benedictus's body in her claws. He seemed so small, so light. She flew with him, the arrows whistling around her, until she was out of their range. Her daughters and Kyrie flew at her sides, tears flowing down their cheeks.
The Vir Requis fled the city, and flew over burned fields, over toppled farmhouses, over wilted forests, over the ruins of the world. No more nightshades flew here. Their darkness was gone, but the darkness of Lacrimosa's world seemed greater than ever, and she did not think any light could banish it. The light of her life had been doused.
The dragons flew into dawn, into night, into dawn again. Their wings scattered clouds, their roars pierced the sky, and the tears of Requiem fell as rain upon a ruined world.
The world, Lacrimosa knew, could no longer be mended. Not for her. Not for her children. Never more for Requiem and her life.
King Benedictus had fallen.
AGNUS DEI
They buried her father in the ruins of Requiem.
She stood above the grave, wrapped in her cloak. Snow fell. It filled her hair, turned her black cloak white, and covered the shattered statues, columns, and memories. The snowflakes glided, swirled in the breeze, and stung her cheeks. The world glittered under a soft sun.
"Requiem is beautiful again, Dada," she whispered.
Her tears fell, and she knelt in the snow, and placed a lock of her hair upon his grave. A ribbon held the strand, bright red, a single piece of color in a white world. Her tears made holes in the snow.
She straightened and stared at the grave. They did not bury him among kings; those mausoleums were gone now. Agnus Dei buried her father in a graveyard of soldiers, so he would rest forever in the company of bravery, and sacrifice, and other men of sword and fang.
"You were a hero to your men," she whispered, and a sob shook her. "A leader. A great king. You were a father to them too. You were a father to us all. Goodbye, Dada."
It seemed unreal, but a dream. How could he be gone? How could she carry on without him? How could she find strength within her to continue this war? Father had always known what to do, where to go, how to fight. How could she live without his wisdom, his strength, and his love? Anguish clutched her, so that she could not breathe.
With trembling fingers, Agnus Dei clutched the hilt of her sword. "I swear to you, Dada. I will rebuild Requiem. I will rebuild our home. I will continue to walk in your path, and not stray from it to the left or right. I love you, Dada. Forever."
She backed away from the grave, tears on her cheeks, snow on her lips. Her mother embraced her, and Agnus Dei buried her face against her shoulder. They wept together, trembling.
Gloriae stood by them, staring at the grave, eyes wide, disbelieving. She had not spoken since leaving Confutatis. She kept looking from the grave, to Agnus Dei, to Lacrimosa, and back to the grave. Finally a sob fled her lips, and tears sprouted from her eyes.
"Mother," Gloriae whispered and joined the embrace.
Kyrie stood, face hard, tears on his cheeks. He stared at the grave, lips moving silently. Agn
us Dei left her mother, and clutched him, and wept against him. He held her, gently at first, then desperately.
"I'm going to look after you," Kyrie whispered. His tears fell. "I don't know how to carry on without him. He was my king, my compass. I don't know how to fight this war without Benedictus. But I promise you, Agnus Dei. However I can, I will look after you, and Gloriae, and Lacrimosa. You have my word. You have me forever."
"Oh, Kyrie," she said, and clung to him, her tears on his shoulder. Her heart seemed like a ball of twine, too tight, and she trembled.
She left Kyrie's embrace, and took a step back, and shifted into a dragon. She knelt before the grave, and tossed her head back, and blew flame. The column of fire rose into the snowy sky, spinning and crackling.
The others became dragons too. They stood in a ring, tears on their cheeks. They blew four pillars of fire, a farewell of sound and heat and light... for one fire extinguished.
BOOK THREE: LIGHT OF REQUIEM
TEETH
The three boys swaggered down the streets, arms pumping, eyes daring beggars, urchins, and other survivors to stare back. The dragons had left this city; so had the nightshades. In the ruins after the war, new lords arose. The Rot Gang ruled now.
"Slim pickings today," said Arms. The wiry, toothless boy was seventeen. He crossed the arms he was named for—arms long and hairy as an ape's. "We've been searching this cesspool all morning. These streets are clean."
Teeth glowered at him. "Shut your mouth, Arms," he said. With a long, loud noise like a saw, he hawked and spat. The glob landed at Arms's feet and bubbled.
Arms glowered back, spat too, and muttered.
The third Rot Gang boy—a gangly youth named Legs—watched and smirked. Drool dripped from his heavy lips. He towered seven feet tall, most of his height in his stilt-like legs. He was dumb, even dumber than Arms, and useless in a fight. Teeth kept him around because, well, Legs made him look normal. So what if my teeth are pointed like an animal's? Around Legs, nobody notices.
"You like that, freak?" Teeth asked him. "You like me yelling at old Arms here?"
Legs guffawed, drooled, and scratched his head. He had a proper name, though Teeth didn't know it. He didn't care. Freaks didn't deserve proper names.
"Yeah I like Arms angry, I do," said Legs. "Makes me laugh, his little eyes, all buggy like so." He brayed laughter.
Arms turned red. His eyes did bulge when angry. He trundled toward Legs and punched his face. The lanky boy screamed. Tears welled up in his eyes. He swiped at Arms, but the wiry youth dodged the blow.
Teeth spat again. "Useless in a fight, you freak," he said to Legs. "I don't know why I keep you around. Come on, break it up! You want to eat tonight? Let's keep looking. You too, Arms. There are bodies left in this city. We'll find them. And if we can't, we'll make our own."
Legs was crying and Arms muttering. Teeth snarled, pushed them forward, and the Rot Gang kept moving down the street. Blood dripped from Legs's nose, leaving a trail of red dots.
Confutatis lay in ruins. Fallen bricks, shattered statues, and broken arrows covered the city. The nightshades had done their work well; the dragons had finished it. You could go days without seeing a soldier, priest, or guard, but you always saw urchins. They huddled behind smashed statues, inside makeshift hovels, or simply under tattered blankets. When they saw the Rot Gang, they cowered and hid. Teeth smirked as he swaggered by the poor souls. On the first week after the dragons, when survivors were claiming their pockets of ruin, many children had challenged him, adults too. His sharpened teeth had bitten, severing fingers, ears, noses. One boy, he remembered, had tried to steal a chicken from him; Teeth had bashed his head with a rock, again and again, until he saw brains spill. The memory boiled his blood and stirred his loins. He missed killing.
Legs guffawed and pointed. "Hey boss, look here, you see them, little ones, hey." He snickered and wiped his nose, smearing blood and mucus across his face.
Teeth stared. He saw them. A gaggle of urchins—little girls, eight or nine years old by the look of them. They hid behind a fallen statue of Dies Irae. One cradled a dog in her arms. When they saw the Rot Gang, the girls froze. Then they began to flee.
"Catch them," Teeth commanded.
Arms and Legs took off, the former lumbering like an ape, the latter quick as a horse. Teeth stood and watched. Three girls disappeared into a maze of fallen columns. Arms hit one girl with a rock, knocking her down. Legs grabbed the girl with the dog.
"Bring her here," Teeth said.
The girl was kicking and screaming, but Legs held her tight. Arms approached with his own catch. He held his girl in his arms; she was unconscious, maybe dead.
"Let go, help, help!" The girl in Legs's grasp was panting, face red. Her dog shivered in her grasp.
Teeth stepped forward. He snatched the dog from the girl. He clutched it by the neck, squeezed, and held it out.
"You want your dog back, you little whore?" he said. His blood boiled. A smile twisted his lips. The mutt was squirming and squealing, but powerless to escape.
The girl nodded. "Give him back. Let go!"
Teeth slammed the dog against the ground. It whimpered. Teeth kicked it hard, and it flew toward Arms. The apelike boy laughed and kicked it back, and blood splattered the cobblestones.
"Kick dog!" Legs said. "Kick dog, I want to play it."
The girl screamed and wept as they played. Finally Teeth grew bored. The dog was no longer squealing, and the game was no longer fun.
"Enough," he said. "We've come seeking bodies, not whiny little whores. Legs, let her go."
The gangly boy dropped the girl. Her knees hit the cobblestones, and her skin tore, but she seemed not to notice. She raced forward, lifted her dead dog, and cradled it.
Teeth laughed. "You idiot. The damn thing's dead. What kind of freak wants a dead dog for a pet?" He scratched his chin. "I wonder if Irae would pay for a dead dog."
Arms shook his head. "Nah. No way. You know Blood Wolves?"
Teeth glared at him. "You know I do. You know I hate Blood Wolves. You calling me an idiot, Arms? If that's what you're doing, I'll play some Kick Arms and have a nice body to sell."
Legs laughed, spraying saliva. "Kick Arms, Kick Arms, I like to play it."
Arms picked his nose. "I ain't calling you nothing. Cool it, Teeth. But Blood Wolves, you see, they've been bringing dead dogs, and horses, and whatnot. I hear the soldiers speak of it. Even brought a whole dead griffin, they did, Sun God knows how they dragged it. Worth coppers at best, the dogs. A griffin might fetch gold, maybe, but not dogs and horses and all that rubbish. He needs limbs most, human limbs. Heads too. Men, you know. With brains and whatnot. That's how you make mimics, not dogs." He snatched the dead dog from the girl and tossed it. It flew over a pile of bricks, and the girl ran weeping to find it.
Teeth knew that Arms was right. Sometimes he saw mimics with animal parts—a horse's hoof here, a dog's head there—but they were rare. Human bodies were what the Rot Gang specialized in, but pickings were slim lately, other gangs were growing, and their pockets were light. Teeth knew it was a matter of time before they'd have to stop hunting bodies... and start making bodies.
But who could he kill? The urchins were too small, mere children with frail limbs; Dies Irae wouldn't pay much for them. And it seemed everybody else in this city had joined larger gangs, arming themselves with daggers, clubs, even swords. And I only have one knife, an apelike oaf, and a skinny giant who'd piss himself in a fight sooner than kill a man.
"All right, let's go, north quarter today. Lots of ruins there. Bodies underneath them, rotting maybe, but they'll still fetch some coin, good bronze too."
They continued through the winding streets, passing by fallen forts, crushed hovels, and cracked statues of Dies Irae. Old blood stained the cobblestones. Nightshades' ash and dragons' fire had blackened the ruins. Teeth remembered the battle, not a moon ago. The five dragons had swooped upon the city, blowing fire. Benedictus the Black
had led them, and he led griffins too. Nightshades had fought them, and Teeth had never seen so much fire and blood; it rained from the sky. The next day, as men lay rotting in the streets, Teeth had begun to collect.
Finally they reached the smaller, northern quarters, where there were barely streets anymore, merely piles of bricks and wood.
"Dig," Teeth barked at the other boys.
They climbed onto the piles of debris and began rummaging. Wind moaned around them, smelling of rot. Teeth cursed as he worked. If there were no bodies left in the city, there was no money either. He'd have to escape into the countryside like so many others.
I could become an outlaw... live in the forests, hunt travellers, grab plump peasant girls when I can find them. That didn't sound too bad, but Teeth knew little about the forest; he had spent his life on these streets.
I could join the Earthen too, if they're real, he thought. Folks whispered about the Earthen sometimes—wild Earth God followers who lived in caves. Some said they were building weapons, preparing for a strike against Dies Irae, the man who had toppled their temples and banned their faith. But Teeth didn't care much for gods or holy wars, no more than he cared for the wilderness. This city is a cesspool, but it's all I know.
The smell of decay hit his nostrils with a burst, so strong he nearly fell over. Teeth spat, dizzy. He pulled aside two bricks and saw a rotting head. He pulled it up by the hair; it came loose from its body. The head was pulsing with maggots, so bloated it looked like a leather sack. Teeth tossed it aside in disgust, and it burst.
"Bah! These bodies are useless now." He clenched his fists. "They're too old, too swollen, no good for anyone anymore. How would Irae sew these together? You just look at them, and they fall apart. Nothing left of them but rot."
Behind him, Arms brayed a laugh. "I tolds you, Teeth. I tolds you. We need to bring animals, dogs and whatnot, and those little girls maybe, they have teeth that can bite."
Teeth growled. He marched across the pile of bricks and grabbed Arms's collar. "Dogs? Little girls? I want silver, Arms. Gold if we can get it. Not copper pennies. I'm not a beggar like the Blood Wolves."
Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy Page 50
