Pillars of Dragonfire (12 page)

"Take the
right!" Lucem cried.

Vale grumbled. He
thought he knew what Lucem was thinking. "Meet you in the middle."

The red dragon grinned.
"Not sure our lances are long enough, but I'll try."

The dragons parted
ways, Vale curving his ascent toward the right, Lucem to the left. As hundreds
of dragons blew fire all around, Vale rose above Ziz's wings again. Once more,
he emerged into the blue sky.

The head of the bird
shrieked above, the beak crushing more dragons. Several warriors of Requiem
were flying around the head, blasting dragonfire, but none could burn the great
sunbird.

Ziz is impenetrable
to claws and fangs, fireproof, impossible for dragons to cut,
Vale thought.
When the bird screeched again, Vale grimaced, his eardrums thrumming so madly
he thought they'd rip.
It hurts our ears. Time to hurt his.

He flew closer, dodging
the snapping beak. Other dragons flew all around, and streams of dragonfire
crisscrossed the sky. The beak lashed again and again, fast as striking vipers,
devouring dragons. In the distance, across the great feathered head, Vale could
glimpse a soaring red dragon, clutching a lance.

There!
Vale
stared. He saw it. When Ziz's wings blasted air, raising the feathers on the
head, the hole revealed itself—no larger than a man's head.

Its ear.

A
few hundred yards away, Lucem was charging toward the head. Vale bared his
fangs and charged too.

The great bird spun its
head from side to side, finally settling on Vale. Its eyes narrowed balefully,
and the bird thrust its head forward, beak snapping.

Vale cringed.

The beak opened wide,
prepared to grab him.

Wincing, Vale released
his magic.

He shrunk at once to
human form and fell. The beak snapped shut inches away. The lance tumbled and
spun through the sky.

Before the beak could
snap again, Vale shifted back into a dragon. He grabbed the spear and soared.
Lucem came flying forth.

"Now, Vale!"
the red dragon cried.

Vale whipped around in
the sky, dodging the snapping beak, rose higher, ascended above the head . . .
then released his magic again.

As he fell in human
form, he grabbed the lance.

There.

Wind gusted, raising
the feathers on Ziz's head.

There!

Falling as a man, Vale
thrust his lance.

The blade—long and
sharp as a sword—drove into the massive bird's ear. Vale pushed with all his
might, feeling the blade tear through the eardrum, driving deeper, and he kept
pushing until the shaft sank deep into the head.

Across the great head,
Lucem shoved forth his own lance, driving the blade and shaft into Ziz's
opposite ear.

The sunbird screamed.

It was a sound so
horrible, so loud, so anguished, that Vale covered his ears and fell, still in
human form. He thumped down onto the creature's wing. Above, the massive head
thrashed, the lances still embedded into it. Blood leaked. The wings trembled,
struggling to beat.

Vale rose as a dragon.
He flew higher. Lucem flew with him. Below them, the great bird cried out—a
sound that seemed almost afraid, almost human.

Vale expected to feel
triumph, pride in Requiem, maybe only relief—but instead he felt pity. He felt
guilt.

We slew a
mythological beast. We slew a frightened animal, newly hatched.

Below him, Ziz's head swayed,
and the great bird the size of a city began to fall.

Vale had to look away,
his eyes suddenly damp.

All across the sky, the
surviving dragons cheered. Many fired down dragonfire, roasting the sunbird as it
fell. The earth and sky shook as Ziz slammed against the land, its one wing
draped across the city wall, the other across the fields. The animal gave one
more cry, weaker, softer . . . and then fell silent.

"Damn yeah!"
Lucem cried. "That's how it's done."

The red dragon flew in
circles, hooting with joy. But Vale only lowered his head.

A great battle
awaits you, son of Requiem.

"But it was not
this battle," he whispered. "Not this slaughter far from our
home."

As Lucem still yipped
with joy, and as the dragons cheered all around, Vale turned to look south. The
gray cloud in the distance was moving closer—Ishtafel's hosts. They had fought
a bloody battle here, one that had tested Vale's new army and all his resolve.
But the greatest battle still awaited—one that Vale hoped he would never have
to fight.

 
 
MELIORA

We must
move fast.

She glanced toward the south,
where a shadow approached. Ishtafel and his host of harpies, a million strong.
Only an hour or two away.

Meliora pulled her
wings close to her body and dived. The city of Keleshan rose below upon the
mountain, the egg-shaped fortress on its crest broken, the great bird itself
dead upon the walls and roofs. The last few seraphim fled from the city,
scattering in all directions.

But there was still
life in Keleshan. Still many souls. Awaiting her. Awaiting salvation.

In the dawn's light,
evil rising like a tidal wave behind her, Meliora Aeternum, Mother of Requiem,
descended into the city of Keleshan with a pillar of white fire. From homes,
huts, fields, and refineries they emerged—the slaves of the city. Hobbled.
Collared. Beaten and broken down, but singing, calling out her name.

"Meliora the
Merciful! The Queen of Requiem arrives!"

Meliora had not known
her tales had spread this far, yet these people sang for her, weeping in the
city streets and on the roofs. Her people. Her children. Children of Requiem.

Kira and Talana flew at
her sides, her trusted handmaidens-turned-comrades. The two young dragons
carried crates, which they shattered in their claws. Keys—thousands of
keys—rained onto the city.

"Open your chains,
children of Requiem!" Meliora cried, flying above the homes and temples
and fields. "Unlock your collars, Vir Requis. Summon the magic of
starlight, and fly with me! Fly with your nation."

Hundreds of thousands
of dragons, freed from Tofet, flew above the city. Thousands more rose from Keleshan
below—wobbling, afraid, flying for the first time in their lives. Their chains
fell. Their collars lay smashed on the streets. And they rose, dragon after
dragon, scales bright, fire hot, tears in their eyes and their songs filling
the sky.

"Requiem!"
they sang. "May our wings forever find your sky."

The ancient song of
Requiem—the song their people had sung for thousands of years, since King
Aeternum and Queen Laira had raised a column in a northern forest, since
Priestess Issari had shone her light. Past the eras, the generations that had fought
and fell and wept and prayed, the song of dragons remained. That song spread
across the camp, filling their hearts—the prayer of a nation.

Yet in the south, a
different song rose.

Meliora could hear it
now, and she shivered.

A demonic buzz.
Shrieks. Jeers. Cackles. The song of harpies, and above it a distant
voice—almost impossible to hear—deep, calling out to her. Vowing eternal
pain. The voice of Ishtafel.

Meliora sneered.

That is one battle I
will not fight, not yet, not here. This day we slew a great enemy, but Ishtafel
is an enemy we cannot defeat.

"Fly, dragons of
Requiem!" she shouted, rising higher in the sky. "Fly north. Fly with
me. To the coast. To the sea. To Requiem!"

She raised her pillar
of white dragonfire, a twin to King's Column in the north. The camp gathered
around her beacon.

She flew north, leaving
the city of Keleshan behind, and they followed. They had lost many, and they
had gained many more. Together they flew, moving as fast as they could, seeking
a home, fleeing the darkness.

 
 
ELORY

As the dragon flew northward,
leaving the sacked city behind, Elory kept glancing over her shoulder and
seeing, hearing, remembering.

Ishtafel's host of
harpies flew perhaps fifty leagues away—just close enough to cover the
horizon. And they were closing the distance quickly. Every hour that Elory
looked behind her, the enemy seemed a mile closer. Before fighting in Keleshan,
only Requiem's scouts or highest flyers—those who dared rise until the air
thinned to nearly nothing—had been able to see Ishtafel in the south. Yet now
he was always there, seen even from normal altitude.

Even with one missing
ear, Elory could hear them. Cackles. Chants. Shrieks. Their stench carried on
the wind, assaulting her nostrils even from here. Even with so many dragons
flying around her, Elory could not feel safe. Not with that host of killers on
her trail.

Only a thousand
harpies devastated us, slaying ten dragons for each one of them.
Elory
shuddered as she flew.
Now a million of those creatures fly in pursuit,
gaining on us.

She forced herself to
look away, to gaze around at her fellow Vir Requis. The dragons flew in a great
camp, a kingdom in the air. About a third of them flew as dragons; the others
rode their comrades, resting in human forms. The new arrivals from Keleshan had
swelled their numbers. The Royal Army surrounded the weaker dragons, and at the
head of the column flew Meliora, raising her white flames into the sky, a
beacon that even the southernmost dragons—several miles behind—could see and
follow.

And Ishtafel can see
it too,
Elory thought.

Worse than the sight of
that distant cloud, than the noise, the stench, the fear—were the memories.

The images kept
flashing before Elory—when she stared into the distance, when she slept,
sometimes surprising her, creeping up on her. Whether they pounced, lurked,
cut, taunted her, the memories were always there.

Ishtafel tossing down
the bruised, ravaged body of Mayana, the young laborer from Tofet, Elory's
dearest friend. Ishtafel's lance thrusting into Mother, slaying the dragon who
had only been trying to protect her daughter. And Ishtafel dragging Elory into
the ziggurat, promising to invade her body once her training in the pleasure
pits was complete.

I don't know how to
forget,
Elory thought.
I know how to fight an enemy who flies in this
sky, but how do I fight an enemy inside me?

She craned her neck
around to look at her back. Upon her violet scales they slept: three young
children, their parents slain in this war. The eldest was barely a youth, the
youngest a babe.

There will be many
more orphans before we reach our homeland,
Elory thought.
I promise you,
children, that I will fight, kill, even die to build you a home. A place where
you can be free, safe, where you can grow up like the Vir Requis of old, proud
and strong.

She flapped her wings
and flew faster, gliding over thousands of dragons below, until Elory reached
the head of the camp. Meliora still flew there—she hadn't slept for days, it
seemed. Farther back glided a long, green dragon—Jaren, Priest of Requiem.

"Father,"
Elory said, coming to glide at his side.

He seemed to hear the
hurt in her voice. He turned toward her, eyes soft, and caressed her with the
tip of his wing. "My daughter."

Elory had been strong
through her battles. She had faced the lashes of the overseers and stayed
standing. She had fought in the most cursed of days, the decimation in Shayeen.
She had battled the seraphim over Tofet, she had faced the Rancid Angels in the
darkness, and she had slain harpies and battled a bird the size of the sky.
Throughout her wars, she had roared in fury and pride, and she had fought as a
warrior. Yet now, with these children sleeping on her back, with her memories
free to fill her in the clear sky, tears filled Elory's eyes.

"Father," she
said, "can you tell me the story again? The one I always loved the most?
About Queen Laira?"

The green dragon
nuzzled her with his snout, smiled sadly, and nodded. "Of course."

Again, Jaren told her
that tale—a tale over five thousand years old. The tale of Laira, the Mother
of Requiem, the kingdom's founder and first queen.

"Laira grew up in
a tribe of hunters who roamed the northern plains," Father said. "She
was a frightened girl, blessed with the magic of starlight, magic she had to
hide. The other tribesmen tormented her, starved her, beat her, slew her
mother, slew all others with her magic—the magic to become a dragon. Laira
escaped her tribe of nomads, and for many days, she wandered the wilderness.
She was cold. She was hungry. She was wounded. The nights were dark and she
thought that dawn could never shine."

Elory nodded, her tears
falling. "But she found something."

"She found
something." Jared smiled. "A hidden canyon in an escarpment. A
waterfall. And a group of others—others hunted, exiled, others the world
called 'weredragons.' People who could grow wings and scales, breathe fire,
rise as dragons. They fought a great war, those early outcasts hiding in the
canyon. King Aeternum led them to battles against the demons of the Abyss.
Issari, the Priestess in White, healed their wounds, then rose into the sky,
becoming the eye of the Draco constellation. And it was Laira, first queen and
great mother to our family, who prayed to our column, who blessed that pillar
that still calls us home."

Elory now repeated that
prayer. Laira's Prayer. The prayer that now belonged to all of Requiem.

"As
the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond
our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child
of the woods, you are home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find
your sky."

Elory was descended of
Laira and Aeternum, they said—the many generations running unbroken from those
early founders to her. To Vale. To Meliora. And Elory whispered a prayer of her
own.