"I will not die," she hissed, fists clenched behind the stake she was tied to. "I will not give up. I will fight this until my very last drop of strength, and then I will fight some more."
The roc flew, shrieking, holding the stake in her talons. They glided toward the forest, a hundred rocs shrieking and chasing behind them.
The grassy hills rolled below, speckled with boulders and scattered elm trees. Mist hung in the valleys, deer ran along a riverbank, and a forest of oaks, maples, and birches sprawled in the north. Neiva flew toward those woods now, descended above the canopy, and screeched.
"Through the trees!" Laira said. "Land among them."
The roc hesitated. Clutching the stake in both talons, Neiva seemed unable to land; the canopy was too thick. With her talons free, perhaps Neiva could have parted the branches, but now she merely hovered above the trees, holding the stake. When Laira twisted her head, she saw the other rocs chasing, and their riders fired arrows.
"Drop me!" Laira cried. "Do it!"
Neiva tossed back her head, her beak opened wide, and she cried out, the sound so loud Laira thought her eardrums might snap. The roc's talons opened and the stake—Laira tied to it—tumbled down.
Laira screamed as she crashed through the canopy, snapping branches and scattering leaves. For an instant she fell through open air. The stake hit a branch, tilted, and straightened vertically; her feet faced the ground. Then, with a thud that rattled her teeth and spine, the stake slammed into the forest floor.
Laira cried out in pain, sure that her bones had shattered. Every segment in her back seemed to knock against another. She couldn't even breathe. She tried to gasp for breath when the stake tilted forward. She winced, tugging at her bonds . . . and slammed facedown into the dirt. The stake landed on her back, creaking against her spine, driving her deep into the mud. Soil filled her mouth, nostrils, and eyes.
For a moment, Laira only lay still. She saw nothing but stars floating across blackness. She didn't know if she was alive or dead. The smell of soil, worms, and blood filled her nostrils. The pain throbbed, but it felt distant, dulled. She was floating away.
No.
Her fingers curled inward.
No. Fight. Get up. Move.
Somewhere above, a hundred rocs shrieked, and hunters cried out.
Get up! spoke the voice inside her. Move! Run!
She growled, pushed down her shoulders, and screamed into the mud.
Her face rose from the soil, and she sucked in breath, choking on dirt and leaves. She spat. The weight of the stake pushed down on her back. She wanted to cry for Neiva again, but dared not make a sound; the hunters would hear. Somewhere ahead, she heard trumpeting and thumping feet—mammoths running among the trees. Briefly she wondered if these were the same mammoths she had tried to hunt only days ago. Now she was the hunted.
I'm burned. I'm broken. I'm bruised. I'm bound to a wooden stake that crushes me and I cannot move. I will die here.
She gritted her teeth, gulping down the despair.
So I will die fighting.
With a growl, she pushed down her knees and tugged mightily at her bonds. The ropes dug into her again, but she found that her wrists slid a short distance up the stake.
Hope kindled inside her. She could not break her bonds, but with the stake lying flat above her, perhaps she could sling her wrists and legs above its top. She would still be tied but free of the stake; she would be able to crawl, maybe even hop, forward.
Wincing, she tugged again. Her wrists and ankles slid up the wood.
The thud of wings and cries of rocs sounded above. Hunters shouted; she could make out Zerra's voice among them. The stench of the flock wafted down into the forest, a foul miasma. Laira clenched her jaw, winced, and tugged with all her might. The rope kept tearing into her flesh, but she kept tugging, inch by inch, until with a gasp, her wrists reached the top of the stake. With one more tug, she was free from the wood. She wriggled her legs free too, fell into the mud, and crawled.
The stake lay behind, but ropes still bound her limbs. She couldn't even stand up. Dry leaves stuck to the mud covering her, filling her mouth, her eyes, her nostrils. Gasping for air, she wriggled into a patch of tall grass.
"Find her!" Zerra shouted somewhere above the canopy. "Rocs, pick up her scent!"
Again Laira heard the discordant sound—like air through pipes—as the rocs above sniffed for her.
They will smell me, she thought. They will find me like last time. They will take me back and torture me.
She had to mask her scent somehow. She had to move faster. She crawled over a fallen log, ignoring the agony of her wounds. When she thumped down into a patch of moss, she saw an abandoned mammoth foraging camp.
The trees were stripped bare of leaves here. Prints filled the mud, and shed mammoth fur covered brambles and boulders. The animals were gone, fled from the cries of rocs; she could see a path of trampled grass and saplings. A stench hit her nostrils, making her gag; a pile of mammoth dung steamed ahead, still fresh.
"Find her!" Zerra shouted above.
Laira winced. She took a deep breath and held it. Struggling not to gag, she crawled into the steaming mound.
Her body convulsed and she clenched her fists and jaw. She wriggled around, feeling the foul slop flow around her, coating her hair, sliding down her clothes, clinging to her skin, and even filling her nostrils and ears. When she finally crawled out—sticky and covered with the stuff—she couldn't help it. She leaned her head down and vomited, and her body shook, and she almost passed out from the pain and disgust.
Trees shattered behind her as the rocs crashed through the canopy.
Still bound, steaming and fetid and coated with the mammoth dung, Laira crawled into the brush. Leaves and grass clung to her sticky skin.
Her scent was masked. Her body was camouflaged. She was battered and burnt and covered in dung, but she kept crawling, refusing to abandon hope. Behind her, she heard Zerra shouting at his men, insisting that his roc had smelled the maggot here. She heard the beasts caw. She heard them fly above, the hunters cursing, the flock confused.
"Just keep crawling, Laira," she whispered to herself. The foul waste entered her mouth and she spat it out. "Keep crawling. Never stop. You can escape them."
Through grass, under brambles that scratched her, and over stones that stabbed her, Laira kept crawling, her wrists and ankles still bound, until the sounds of the hunters grew distant behind her. And still she kept moving. She wriggled on, sticky and gagging every few feet, until she reached a declivity bumpy with stones.
She tried to crawl down to the valley below. Slick with the dung, she slipped over a slab of stone, and she rolled.
She tumbled down the slope, banging against tree roots, blinded with pain. Her elbow smashed against a rock, and she bit down on a scream. She seemed to roll forever, grass and dry leaves sticking to her, until she slammed into a mossy boulder, and her head banged against the stone.
Stars exploded across her vision. Her eyelids fluttered. She gasped, curling her fingers, struggling to cling to consciousness, but the blackness gave a mighty tug . . . and she faded.
SENA
Alone.
More than afraid, hurt, or ashamed—though he was those things too—Prince Sena Seran, Son of Raem, felt alone.
He sat in the corner of his prison cell, the top of Aerhein Tower. A barred window—barely larger than a porthole—broke the opposite wall. A ray of light shone into the chamber, falling upon him. Sena liked this time of day, the brief moment when the ray hit the wall near the floor, allowing him to sit in light and warmth. Soon the ray would move, creeping up the wall, moving over his head, leaving him and slowly fading into darkness.
But for now I have you here, friend, Sena thought, blinking into the beam. Please don't leave me again.
The beam began to rise as the sun moved, and Sena craned his neck, straightened his back, and tried to soak up some last moments of companionship, of sunlight, of
safety. But then the beam was gone, hitting the wall above his head.
He supposed he could have stood up. Standing would make him taller, let him embrace the sun again. But he was too weak to stand most days. Too wounded. Too hungry. Too tired.
"Alone," he whispered.
He rattled his chains just to hear them answer, just to hear a sound. That was how his chains talked.
How long had he been here? Sena didn't know. At least a moon, he thought. Maybe longer.
"I'm sorry, Issari," he whispered. His chafed lips cracked and bled, and he sucked on the coppery liquid. "I'm sorry that I'm sick. I'm sorry that I shifted into a dragon. I miss you, sister."
He wondered where Issari was now. In her chamber in the palace, the gardens, perhaps the throne room? Was she thinking of him too? Sena had heard Issari several times since entering this prison. She had cried out behind the doors, calling his name, begging the guards to let her in. But they always turned her away. And Sena always tried to call out in return, but his throat was always too parched, his voice too weak.
Caw! Caw!
Sena raised his head. A crow had landed on the windowsill and stood between the bars. The bird glared at him and cawed again.
"Hello, friend," Sena whispered.
He began to crawl forward, desperate to caress this bird, to feel another living soul. The crow stared at him.
Caw!
You have freedom, Sena thought. You have wings and can fly, yet you came here—to visit me.
As he crawled closer, chains rattling, Sena found his mouth watering.
I can eat you.
Suddenly it seemed that this was no crow at all but a roasted duck, fatty and delicious, not perched on a windowsill but upon a bed of mushrooms and leeks. Sena licked his lips. Since landing in this cell, he had eaten nothing but the cold gruel the guards fed him once a day—a gray paste full of hairs, ants, and sometimes—depending on the guard—a glob of bubbling spit.
"But you are delicious, crow," Sena said, struggling to his feet. "You are a true friend—better than that damn light that keeps leaving me. Better than the rat that only bites me when I try to catch it." He reached out pale, trembling hands toward the crow, the shackles around his wrists clanking. "I'm going to eat you—ah!"
The crow bit him.
Sena brought his finger to his lips, tasting blood.
With a caw that sounded almost like a laugh, the crow flew off into the sky—back into that forbidden world, back into freedom.
Sena shook his fists at the barren window, spraying blood. It was just like that damn rat again. It was just like that damn beam of light. They all taunted him. They all pretended to be his friends. And they all left him.
He stared out the window. So many creatures flew across the sky these days. Birds. Demons. Creatures of scales, of rot, of blood, of jelly, of stone, of fire—a host of flying nightmares that cackled, grinned, sucked, spewed, swarmed, streamed, lived. Sometimes Sena thought he was delusional. Other times he thought the Abyss had risen into the world, that the endless lurid eyes and fangs were real, not just visions of his hunger but true terrors.
He shook his head wildly and knuckled his eyes, forcing himself to look away from the demons outside his window, from those taunting, cruel, cackling apparitions. They weren't real. They couldn't be real.
Alone . . . insane . . .
Sena trembled. It wasn't fair. The crow thought itself superior to him. Those winged visions of demons thought themselves superior too. If Sena had wings of his own, he could fly farther, higher, catch the damn bird, and—
But I do have wings, he thought.
Of course. He was cursed, impure, an abomination unto Taal.
I can become a dragon.
That sin had landed him in this tower cell in the first place. Perhaps it could also free him.
Wait, whispered a voice in his head. Wait. You tried shifting into a dragon already. Don't you remember? You tried just yesterday. It hurt you. It—
"Quiet!" Sena said, silencing that voice—that voice of the old him, of somebody who had been a prince, not a prisoner, of somebody who still clung to sanity. He hated that voice. He hated that false one, that liar.
He tightened his lips.
He summoned his magic.
Don't! cried the voice inside him. Pain—
Scales flowed across Sena, blue as the sky. Claws began to grow from his fingernails. His body grew larger, inflating, and—
Pain.
The chains that wrapped around him dug deep. He cried out. The metal links cut into him. His ballooning body was pressing against the bonds, and his blood spilled.
With a whimper, he released his magic.
He lay on the floor, trembling, small again, safe again, chained in the shackles that kept him human. He had always been able to shift with clothes, even with a sword at his waist, taking those objects—parts of him like his skin—into his dragon form. But these chains were foreign things, cruel, hurting.
"I'm sorry, Issari," he whispered.
The cell's doorknob rattled behind him.
Sena cowered, sure that the guards had heard him. They would kick him again, spit upon him, bang his head against the wall. He crawled into the corner as the door creaked open, raising his hands to shield his face.
"Please," he whispered.
But it was not the guards.
His father, King Raem Seran, stood at the doorway.
Clad in his bronze armor, the king stared down at his son in disgust. Sena blinked up at his father, and hope sprang inside him.
My father has come to free me.
"Father," he whispered, lips bleeding. "Forgive me. Please. Forgive me. I love you."
When Sena reached out to him, Raem grunted and kicked his hand aside.
"Forgive you?" Raem said. He sneered. "You are a weredragon, a filthy creature lower than lepers. I did not come here to forgive you." He lifted a bloody canvas sack. "I came here to show you what could have been your fate."
Raem upended the sack. A severed head spilled onto the floor, eyes still wide in frozen fear. Sena gasped and scampered away from the ghastly gift.
"A weredragon," Raem said. "My demons caught this one hiding under a bakery." He snorted a laugh. "It can be your friend. As you stare into its dead eyes, remember that you are alive, that I showed you mercy."
With that, his father turned and left the cell, slamming the door behind him.
Tears in his eyes, Sena raced toward the door. He slammed himself against the heavy oak, pounding it with his fists.
"Please, Father!" he shouted. "I'll do anything you ask. I'll never shift again. I . . . I'll hunt weredragons with you! I . . ."
His strength left him.
He slumped to the floor.
The severed head stared up at him, its mouth open, the stalk of its neck red. Sena pulled his knees to his chest and stared back into the lifeless eyes.
At least, he thought as the sunlight faded, I'm no longer alone.
ISSARI
She stood upon the balcony, the wind fluttering her tunic, watching the demons swarm over her city.
Eteer, center of the sprawling Eteerian civilization, had once been a city of pale towers rising into clear skies; swaying palm and fig trees; a peaceful blue sea lapping at mossy walls; and proud people robed in white, walking along cobbled streets, welcoming the ships that sailed in. Birds would sing among the trees, and the sweet scents of fruit and spices would waft upon the wind. Once, standing here, Issari would see a great mosaic of peace and beauty.
Today she saw a hive of rot and flame.
A thousand creatures of the Abyss filled the city now—crawling upon walls, festering upon roofs, and fluttering in the sky. Each of the creatures was a unique horror. Issari saw demons of scales, demons of tentacles, demons of slime, of rot, of fire. She saw creatures turned inside out, organs glistening upon their inverted skin. She saw bloated, warty things drag themselves along cobbled streets, leaving trails of slime. The h
eads of children, innocent and fair, rose upon the bodies of clattering centipedes. Bloated faces of dogs sneered upon the armored bodies of crabs. Conjoined twins, ten or more stitched together with demon thread, moved upon their many legs.
Some creatures were small, no larger than dogs. Others were as large as mules. Everywhere they sniffed, snorted, sought the weredragons. Everywhere they barged through doors, rummaged through temples, pulling out families, licking, smelling, rubbing, discarding.
Issari stood above, staring upon this waking nightmare, her eyes damp. Her fingers clung to the railing.
What has happened to my home?
A voice rose behind her, answering her thoughts.
"They are seeking weredragons. They are ugly, my daughter, and they frighten you, but they are purifying our city of the disease."
She turned to see her father step onto the balcony. He came to stand beside her, leaned over the railing, and watched the creatures swarm down the streets and across the roofs.
Issari spoke in a small voice. "But Father, aren't we just bringing a greater evil into our kingdom?"
Raem turned toward her, and she saw the anger in his eyes. He clenched his fists, and Issari stepped back, sure he would strike her; he had struck her many times before. But his fire died as fast as it had kindled, and he caressed her cheek.
"You are pure, Issari, the only pure thing I have left. But you are young, and you are innocent. There is no evil greater than having a pure human form and betraying it. Our lord Taal forbids tattoos, piercings, obesity, or any disgrace against the form he gave us. To shift into a reptile is the greatest abomination. These demons might look strange, but they are doing Taal's work."
Screams rose below, and Issari spun back toward the city. On a street not far away, a host of demons—red creatures with bat wings—dragged an old man from his home. The greybeard tried to fight them, but the demons clung with clawed hands. Their snouts sniffed, pressing against the man's skin.
Requiem's Song (Book 1) Page 11
