"Dies Irae! Hail Dies Irae!" Their voices shook the ruins.
Smiling thinly, Dies Irae turned and stared at the mimic who stood beside him on the parapets. His most beautiful mimic. The crown jewel of his army. His proudest creation.
"And you, Teeth, will lead them," he said.
The mimic stared back, bared its sharp teeth, and hissed. Its burly, hairy arms reached out and flexed. Centipedes crawled over its stilt-like legs. Dies Irae touched its cheek.
"You are my sweet killer," he said. "Built fresh. Of young bodies. Young freakish bodies. You are strong. You will lead. You will kill."
It snarled. A worm crawled between its teeth. "Yes, master."
Dies Irae smiled when he remembered building this mimic. The two boys had come to him with a fresh body, a friend of theirs, one of their gang. The dead one had long, hairy arms like an ape's. The leader had sharp teeth and a powerful jaw. The third one was stupid, but had long legs made for running, for towering over enemies.
The Rot Gang, that was their name, he remembered. An appropriate name.
He plucked a worm from Teeth's head and crushed it between his fingers. It squirmed, its juices spilling. Dies Irae tossed it aside and licked his fingertips. Teeth snarled.
"Take your army," Dies Irae told him. "Take these thousand warriors. Lead them to Requiem... and to triumph."
Teeth tossed back its head and howled, saliva spraying from its mouth. It raised twin blades in its hands. They caught the light and seemed to shine with the Sun God's fury.
Dies Irae stood on this crumbling wall of Flammis Palace, crossed his arms, and watched his army leave the bloody courtyard. The mimics snaked through the ruins of his city. Yes, Confutatis lies in ruins now, he thought. The weredragons destroyed it. I will make them suffer for it.
When the army disappeared into the distance, Dies Irae descended the wall and entered the ruins of his palace. He walked down halls smeared with blood, rotting guts, and the old ash of dragonfire.
He stepped down a stairwell, plunging into darkness. The air grew colder. Frost covered the walls and stairs. The smells of fear and blood filled his nostrils. The stairwell kept twisting, burrowing into the darkness that lurked under his palace. Finally he stepped into the dungeons. The old kings of Osanna had kept barrels of wine here. Dies Irae kept sweeter treats.
Torches crackled, lighting a craggy hallway lined with cells. Dies Irae stepped toward a cell with iron bars. He heard the prisoners whimper, and he smiled.
"Yes, darlings, you should whimper," he said. "I like it when you whimper."
The keys hung from a peg on the wall. Dies Irae opened the cell's door and stepped inside.
Five women stood chained to the walls. The torchlight danced on their nude bodies. Dies Irae felt his blood grow hot and his loins stir. The women were ripe, with rounded hips, teary eyes, and trembling lips.
"My mimics are creatures of rot and worm," he said to them. A smile spread across his lips. "When I sent them on the hunt for ripe women, I didn't know what they'd bring. Crones? Corpses? But it seems mimics have the lusts of men. You are like summer fruit, full of sweetness and juices."
He stepped toward one woman, a peasant girl by the look of her. Her hair was red, and tears filled her grey eyes. Dies Irae caressed her cheek.
"Please, my lord," she begged.
Dies Irae touched her hair. "Please?" he asked. "What do you wish to beg of me?"
She trembled. "Please, my lord. Is my father.... The creatures dragged him away, and.... Please release me, my lord, I beg you."
He kissed her forehead. His hands travelled down her body, caressing her. Her flesh was icy but soft. Goose bumps rose under his fingertips.
"You should be proud, sweetness. You will do what so many have dreamed of. You will hurt weredragons. When my mimics bring me their heads, I will sew one onto your body."
"My lord, please...." Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I think for you, the boy Kyrie will do. His head will look nice on your soft, ripe body. When my mimics take you, and hurt you, and plant their rotting seeds inside you, Kyrie will know more pain and terror than any being before him. Does it not please you, precious, that your body will hurt a weredragon so?"
Sobs racked that body and she could not speak. Finally she blurted out, "Silva will kill you! The Earthen will save us!"
Dies Irae nodded with a smile. "Ah yes, the Earthen, the group of ragtag Earth God followers who've been killing all those mimics." He grabbed the girl's cheeks and squeezed them. "They are pesky flies, and my creations whisper that this Silva, this leader of theirs, has some skill with the blade. He will make a good mimic some day."
The girl opened her mouth to speak more. Dies Irae backhanded her, so hard that blood splattered, and he felt her jaw crack. Her eyes rolled back and she hung limp on her chains.
He left the girl and turned to another prisoner, an angel of soft blond hair and red lips.
"I think... the weredragon Lacrimosa should work for you. She has always been so thin, and you are luscious. Yes. Her head will be for you."
This girl too wept, and begged, and Dies Irae smiled. What a glorious end it would be for the weredragons! He licked his lips.
A voice spoke behind him, soft and cold.
"And I want the head of the golden weredragon."
Dies Irae turned, eyebrows rising. One of the women had spoken. She stood chained like the others, but did not weep. She did not tremble. Her dark eyes stared at him, simmering with anger.
"The golden weredragon?" he asked her. "Gloriae the Gilded?"
The woman nodded. "When the dragons flew upon this city, it was the golden one who torched my home. The weredragon Gloriae killed my brothers. She killed my husband. Cut my head from my body, my lord. Place her head upon me and make me a mimic. Let the others hurt me. I will do this to make Gloriae suffer."
Dies Irae approached her and examined her in the torchlight. Among the chained women, this one was the fairest. Her hair was black satin, hanging down to her chin. Her eyes were pools of midnight. She looked older than the others—a woman, while the others were mere girls. Her body was lithe and strong, decorated with several knife scars. This was no peasant.
"Who were your brothers?" he asked her, narrowing his eyes. "Who was your husband?"
She raised her chin. "Blood Wolves," she said, eyes spiteful. "Will you kill me for that? I think not. Not if you want my body fresh for your dear Gloriae."
Dies Irae nodded, eyebrows raised, and scratched his chin. "Common thieves, you mean."
She spat onto the floor. "Blood Wolves are no common thugs. We are the shadows in the night. We are the daggers in the alley. We are the terror that strikes in darkness."
Dies Irae ran his fingers along her chest, tracing a scar. It ran from her left collarbone, between her breasts, and to her bottom right rib. He touched her hip, and traced the length of a second scar, which ran down her thigh. She stared back at him, chin raised, lips tight.
"Terror in darkness, you say." He pursed his lips. "Shadows in the night. Perhaps I could find another use for you."
She gritted her teeth. "From the way your fingers touch me, I know how you would use me. I have no interest in serving you so, great emperor. I am a Blood Wolf too. I can fight like my brothers and husband, the men the weredragons slew. I will hurt them."
Dies Irae nodded and rubbed his chin. Five women were chained here. But only four weredragons remained. Benedictus was dead, his body stolen. Yes. Yes, I can spare this one. The four others will be toys to my mimics. This one will be mine.
He unchained her wrists from the wall, and then her ankles. She moved her limbs, hissed, and gritted her teeth. She rubbed the raw flesh, and sweat beaded on her brow. A snarl found her lips. Dies Irae couldn't help but smile. This one was feral. A wolf indeed.
"What is your name?"
"Umbra," she said and glared.
He grabbed her wrist. "Come with me."
She pulled her wrist
free and bared her teeth at him. "I will walk. You will not drag me."
Yes. Yes, I like this one.
They left the dungeons, climbed the stairwell, and walked across the crumbling halls of Flammis Palace. Everywhere were strewn bricks, stains of ash, smeared blood, and guards with sallow eyes. Those eyes lit up when Umbra walked by, still nude. Umbra stared back at them, chin raised, as if challenging them to speak. Her eyes said, Make a move, and I'll tear out your throats.
He led her upstairs and into his bed chamber. The nightshades, griffins, and dragons had destroyed half the palace, but this room remained untouched. It was a large chamber, large enough to house a dragon. Golden tapestries covered his walls. His bed was ten feet wide, made of pure gold inlaid with diamonds. His tables, chairs, and vases were gilded and shone with emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. Priceless swords of steel and jewels hung everywhere.
"Like gold, do we?" Umbra asked. Her eyes darted from gemstone to gemstone. They lit up like the eyes of a starving man who stumbled upon a feast. She reached toward a jewelled dagger which lay on a giltwood table.
Dies Irae caught her wrist. "Do not touch anything. You will have gold too, if you earn it."
She looked up at him. A crooked smile touched her lips. "And how do I earn it, my lord?"
He twisted her wrist and pulled her close. "I will show you."
She spat in his face. "Let me go. My husband hasn't been dead a moon."
He slapped her face. He'd wanted to knock her down, but she stayed standing... and punched him.
Her fist hit his cheek, and he fell. White light blinded him. He blinked and struggled to rise, but Umbra pressed her foot against his chest, pinning him down. She grabbed the dagger, drew the blade, and pointed it at him.
"This dagger is mine," she said. "I take payment in advance. I will kill for you with this dagger. Give me a name, and he is dead. But I will not be your slave. Those women underground? Rape them if you will, not me."
Dies Irae lay looking up at her. His blood pulsed. "I do not want those women underground. I want you. I want your daggers in the night. I want your hands covered in the blood of my enemies. And I want your body under mine."
He reached up, grabbed her waist, and pulled her down toward him. Her dagger scratched his side, but he barely noticed. She snarled, and he rolled her onto her back and lay atop her.
"Get off me," she said.
"No."
Dies Irae was not a young man. He was twice this woman's age, but she made him feel young. He reached down and found her ready for him. She moaned beneath him, and snarled, and wrapped her arms around his back.
"You will kill weredragons," he hissed as he thrust into her.
"I will cut off their heads!" she cried and panted.
"We will kill the beasts and make them suffer like none have suffered."
She screamed.
Their voices echoed.
He rolled off her and stared at the ceiling. Gold and jewels covered that ceiling too. These chambers were the only place where glory and light still shone. The weredragons had destroyed the rest of the empire. But they will pay. They will pay.
Umbra nestled against him and ran her fingers across his chest. "For an old man, you have a lot of fire in you."
Dies Irae looked at her, silent. Suddenly he did feel old. Here beside him lay a woman half his age, a woman of midnight beauty. Her hair was silk, her eyes pools of shadow, her body lithe and tanned and intoxicating as summer wine. And him? An old cripple. Benedictus had taken his left arm; he wore a steel mace there instead. His brother had taken his eye too. Yes, he felt old. He felt ugly.
I should have beaten her, he thought. I should have made her bleed, made her fear me, and raped her as she screamed. Then it would not matter that he was old or deformed. Then he would be powerful, a tyrant to fear. But this.... She had given herself willingly. She had enjoyed it. That meant that she could judge him, see not only his power, but his weakness too.
Dies Irae looked away and gritted his teeth.
"How many men have you killed?" he asked.
"In bed?" She considered. "Three."
"I mean in a fight."
She snorted. "Your common soldiers fight. They hack and slash with clumsy blades, and wear armor that slows them. I don't fight, my lord. I sneak in the darkness and stab in the back. I poison and strangle. I have killed thirty men. Now I will kill weredragons."
Dies Irae rose to his feet. He stepped toward his window and looked outside at the ruins of his city. "A thousand mimics march toward Requiem. I know the weredragons. They will not stay to defend their home. They will leave. And I know where they will go."
He turned to look at Umbra. She lay on his rug, staring up at him hungrily.
"Where, my lord?"
"To darkness," he said. "To death. And to your daggers."
MEMORIA
They flew over plains of ice, snow, and rock. The clouds stretched like fingers above them.
"Remember your training," Terra said. Frost and icicles covered his bronze scales. "We've killed griffins. We can kill giants."
Memoria nodded. She let fire fill her mouth and dance between her teeth. Yes, she had fought, and she had killed. She had blown her fire, and lashed her claws, and bitten with her fangs. She had let blood wash her.
"We can kill giants," she agreed.
Her wings were steady and her jaw tight, but her insides trembled. Would giants beg for mercy too? Would they look at her with wide, terrified eyes like the boy she had killed? And, when their eyes met hers, would she find only hatred in her heart and fire on her breath?
Memoria stared ahead at the plains of ice and rock. No. Do not remember that boy. You had to kill him. If he was old enough to ride a griffin, and old enough to kill dragons, he was old enough to die. Giants will not have such large, frightened eyes.
They flew for hours. They crossed leagues. They soared over plains of ice, snow, and black boulders; over seas where whales swam; over icebergs where seals would once gather and now only snow whispered. They flew through wind and cloud. Frost covered their scales and icicles hung from their mouths. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime of flying, they saw the Jet Mountains ahead.
They rose like fortresses, black as memory. No snow covered them. Their surfaces were polished, like shards of black glass glued together. When the light caught them, it nearly blinded Memoria. She remembered Amberus's parting words. The Giant King lives upon the mountaintop. It's him you must face. He has Adoria's Hands.
"Remember your training," Terra repeated. "We've killed griffins. We can kill gia—."
A howl tore the air.
Memoria narrowed her eyes, and her heart pounded. She looked around but saw nothing.
"Giants," she whispered.
Terra nodded. "Keep flying."
The Jet Mountains were getting closer. The sunlight blazed against them, shooting toward the two dragons. Memoria grimaced and squinted. She could barely see.
The howl rose again. A second, then a third howl answered it. The mountain seemed to shake. Memoria covered her ears. The howls were deep, guttural, and ached in her chest. Memoria had heard armies of griffins shriek, but she had never heard anything so loud, so cruel, a sound like tumbling boulders.
"Do you see them?" she called over the roars.
Terra flew beside her, eyes narrowed. The light from the mountains turned his bronze scales white. He growled and blew fire.
"No!" he called back. "They've seen us. They—"
"Terra!"
Something came flying through the light toward them. She could barely see it. She grabbed Terra and pulled him down. Air whooshed above them.
"What was that?" Terra cried.
"Fly up! Higher."
They soared and emerged from the blinding light. Snow and ice rolled beneath them. When she looked ahead, she saw the Jet Mountains closer than she'd ever seen them. Shadows raced across them. Panes of stone moved, and light drenched her again.
"They're using some kind of stone mirrors," Terra said and cursed.
The giants' howls rose. A boulder flew from the mountains, tumbling through the beams of light toward them.
"Watch out!" she cried. She swerved right. Terra swerved left. The boulder passed between them, flames coiling around it.
"Not the most pleasant welcoming," Terra said.
Memoria flew higher, shooting up in a straight line. The air grew thin and cold. She could barely breathe. She looked down and saw giants scurrying across the mountainsides, adjusting their stone mirrors. Memoria had always imagined giants to be slow, lumbering beasts, but these creatures were so fast, her eyes barely caught them.
"Higher, Terra!" she shouted. "Fly out of their boulders' range."
He flew beside her, and they kept soaring, until Memoria gasped for breath, and darkness clawed at the corners of her eyes. She had never flown so high.
Are we safe? she wondered... then saw more boulders flying toward her.
She cursed and swerved, but a boulder hit her leg. She screamed. Pain blazed, and tears sprang into her eyes. More boulders flew. She dived, whipped around them, and swooped.
"New plan," she growled, the wind roaring around her. "Let's burn the bastards."
Terra swooped beside her, flames dancing between his teeth. The giants howled below them. Beams of light blazed, nearly blinding Memoria. The clouds swirled. From the mountains, twenty flaming boulders came flying.
Memoria spun. Three boulders missed her. One grazed her back. A second boulder slammed against her wing. She screamed and tumbled, plummeting toward the mountains.
"Terra!"
More boulders flew. Though her wing blazed, she forced herself to fly. She dipped sideways just in time. Boulders shot around her, their flames licking her. She swerved, dived, spun, and swooped.
"Memoria! Fly with me."
Terra swooped beside her, claws outstretched. His scales were chipped along his left side. They veered left and right, up and down, dodging the boulders. The beams of light kept hitting them, blinding them. A boulder hit her tail, and she screamed, but kept swooping. She saw two giants scurrying across the mountain beneath her.
Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy Page 58
