Pillars of Dragonfire (27 page)

Yet his sister did not
answer. He beat his wings, rose higher, and scanned the sky, yet he could not
see her. The coward must have fled into the tunnels. The worms hid there, as
they had centuries ago. He had defeated them then in the darkness, and he would
defeat them now.

"Come, my
harpies!" He pointed his bloody lance at the archway leading into the
tunnel. "Into the shadows."

He advanced toward the
archway, walking over the frosted soil. He was only yards away when one's head emerged
from within—a dragon lying in the tunnel, barely fitting, blowing dragonfire.
Around Isthafel, harpies shrieked and fled the flames, but Ishtafel kept
walking, shield held before him. The dragonfire slammed into the disk, melting
the metal, heating his armor, but Ishtafel had been burned by dragonfire
before. It could no longer hurt him. His pain was purified, his soul impossible
to burn. He walked through the fire and thrust his lance, shoving it down the
dragon's mouth and throat.

The beast lost its
magic, returning to a man inside the tunnel, dead upon the lance. Ishtafel
tugged his weapon free and entered the darkness.

And there again, after
all this time—they awaited him.

The weredragons.

The beasts who had
slain his lover.

"I return to you
now," Ishtafel whispered, "to finish what I began here five hundred
years ago."

The weredragons stood
in human form, clad in their ancient armor, bearing swords. They howled and
charged toward him, and Ishtafel danced.

He fought as he had
never fought before. He was immortal, but his wounds had slowed him down, and
his armor weighed heavily upon him, but his five hundred years of war had given
him a ruthless expertise in killing. He beat his wings, rose to the top of the
tunnel, and thrust his lance downward, skewering a man. His shield swung, the
sharp edge tearing through helmets and skulls. The weredragons attacked him,
lashing their swords, but the blades bounced off his armor, and his shield cut
them down.

The tunnel was narrow;
only three of the weredragons could fight abreast. He moved down the corridor,
stepping on their corpses, slaying them as he had so many years ago—as he and Reehan
had cut them together.

I still fight for
you, Reehan.

In his memories, she
seemed to float beside him, smiling as she slew, beautiful in the darkness, his
lioness of Edinnu.

We will slay the
reptiles together, my love!

Her voice echoed across
the centuries, and her grin stretched at her cheeks, toothy, bright, her eyes
shining with bloodlust and love for him.

"I still love you,
Reehan," Ishtafel whispered as he shoved his lance through a mother and
her babe, piercing them both with one blow. "I still fight our war."

Behind him, the harpies
entered the tunnel too. They were so large they could only walk single file,
hunched over, knees bent, their wings pulled close to their sides. When
Ishtafel glanced over his shoulder, he saw their wrinkled, warty faces in the
darkness, large as wagons, hissing and dripping saliva. Their bloated bodies
scraped against the walls, boils bursting. Their mouths opened, and they shot
icicles around Ishtafel, narrowly missing him and hitting weredragons ahead.

They moved deeper into
the tunnels. The labyrinth soon split into many paths, and the harpies flowed
down them all, biting, freezing, cutting, eating their enemies. Ishtafel had
not been here for most of his life, yet he still remembered every twist and
turn; he had been walking these tunnels in his dreams since that war long ago.
He passed through chambers, mostly barren, a few still containing ancient metal
vessels. A dragon roared in the library, not daring to blow fire and burn the
books. Ishtafel beat his wings, rose high, and thrust his lance, piercing the
creature's neck, sending it crashing down as a woman. The tunnels delved
deeper, and soon Ishtafel passed a makeshift nursery, mothers and babes
cowering in the shadows. He stabbed them as they begged. He moved onward, the
harpies heeling him, feeding upon the corpses he made.

Five hundred years
ago, I feared you, weredragons,
Ishtafel thought as he stabbed a soldier,
casting the man down.
No more.

He gritted his teeth.
He should have done this ages ago. Finally, after centuries, he faced his old
demons. And he slew them. Each weredragon dead was another nightmare gone. Each
corpse was redemption for his soul. He laughed as he fought that old war again,
and always Reehan danced in his memories, fighting beside him as a spirit, eyes
and smile bright.

They plunged deeper,
and the tunnels grew narrow. Here were the darkest depths of Requiem.

Here is where she
died.

The spirit of Reehan
seemed to grow brighter at his side, but her smile died, and she cried out in
pain. An astral sword cut through her, and she flickered . . . fading . . .
becoming but a shadow.

Ishtafel raised his
dripping lance, chest heaving, staring around at the craggy stone walls. It was
here—this very place, this very spot where he stood. Here that she had died.

A tremble seized him.
Suddenly Ishtafel could not breathe, and his wounds—the horrible burns that
spread beneath his metal skin—blazed in agony, as if Tash were again bathing
him with dragonfire. His heart pounded in his ears. Harpies crowded behind him,
shrieking, licking their lips, sucking up last gobbets of flesh.

"I will finish
this," Ishtafel hissed, lance trembling in his grip. "It ends here
and now."

Several weredragon
children cowered before him. He roared and ran toward them.

 
 
MELIORA

The forest burned below her.

The sky above froze.

The column rose through
an inferno, a single tor in a sea of blood and death and light and shadow.

It ends here,
Meliora thought as she flew through the storm.
In darkness our nation falls
and our column cracks.

The wind buffeted her,
and she barely saw any more dragons flying. But the harpies were everywhere.
Laughing. Feasting. Dancing in the dark sky. A million torturous creations, the
bane of dragons.

"It was but a
dream," Meliora whispered, flying through the storm of wind and rot.
"We were but fools dreaming, praying, wishing for something that could
never be. A dream that lasted but a day. And now it ends." Tears filled
her eyes, and her fire blasted out, a white pillar piercing the clouds.

For thousands of
years, we fought against those who rose up to destroy us,
Meliora thought.
For
thousands of years, we fell, burned, died . . . and rose again. In our primordial
forests, we faced the rocs and the demons, and we withstood them. In our golden
age, the griffins slew us, leaving only seven alive . . . yet we defeated our
enemies, and we rose again. The phoenixes burned us in our halls, crumbling our
cities, and we survived them, and we rebuilt. War after war, enemy after enemy,
genocide after genocide, we rose again and again, never dying, remembering
always our column. Remembering our sky. Remembering our name: Requiem.

"Yet now it
ends," she whispered. "Now this dream of a day—this dream of
thousands of years—ends in ice."

They had never faced so
many enemies—a million beasts covering the land, slaying all in their path. An
enemy too strong for them. For here were no monsters, no demons, no men leading
flying beasts—here were deities. Cruel immortals of Edinnu, beings of unholy
gods.

Meliora lowered her
head, ashamed of the ichor that flowed through her veins, for she was half of
Edinnu, and that cruel blood burned her.

"I renounce you,
Saraph!" she cried to the sky, rising through a storm of harpies, knocking
them back with her tail and claws. "I renounce you, Eight Gods! I defy
you, Ishtafel! I am Meliora Aeternum. I am an heiress of Requiem. I will fight
for my column, for my people, for my stars."

She flew higher,
faster, bursting through the enemies, rising through the clouds, until the sky
opened up above her, dark and brilliant. And there they shone—the stars of
Requiem. The Draco constellation. The gods of Requiem who had forever blessed
the Vir Requis, who had given Meliora's people the strength to rise again and
again, to overcome tragedy after tragedy.

The dragon's eye shone,
and Meliora thought that she could hear a soft, high voice speak inside her.

Requiem is eternal.

"Requiem is eternal,"
Meliora whispered. "The line of Aeternum will never fall." She
sneered and narrowed her eyes. "Not on my watch. Not so long as I draw
breath."

She stared down toward
the battle, and she saw that thousands of harpies were streaming into the
tunnels like ants into a hive, forming three lines.

The tunnels of Requiem.

Meliora growled.

The place that had always haunted Ishtafel.

In her childhood,
Meliora had heard Ishtafel screaming in his sleep, crying of weredragons in the
tunnels. The guards and slaves would whisper of the ichor that had spilled
there. Vir Requis told tales of Ishtafel slaying the king of Requiem in the
darkness. Statues of Reehan—the great Lioness of Edinnu—still stood in the
palace.

There Requiem's long
night began,
Meliora thought.
There it will end.

Smoke blasting through
her nostrils, Meliora swooped.

Harpies rose to meet
her. She breathed her white fire, a humming pillar, a twin to King's Column,
burning them down. Her claws tore through their flesh, severing the snakes on
their heads. She kept diving. Her fire trailed across the land, burning trees,
melting snow, melting boulders, crumpling seraphim like ants under a magnifying
glass. Her flames exposed an archway leading into the tunnels, and Meliora
dived down, roaring.

Her claws touched the
ground, and her fire died down. At once harpies leaped toward her, each as
large as her. Their talons reached out, cutting her scales. Meliora bellowed
and reared, claws raised to her stars. She lashed her tail. She bit deep,
tearing them apart, scattering their flesh. Their blood coated her, and she
blew fire skyward.

"Requiem is
eternal!" she cried.

Across the sky, the
last few dragons who still fought echoed her cry. "Requiem is eternal!
Fight for Requiem!"

Til Eleison still flew,
an orange dragon blasting spinning flames. Vale flew higher above, rallying the
last survivors, his claws bloody. But there were so few to rally. So little
hope remained.

Surrounded by the
corpses of harpies, Meliora released her magic. In her human form, she no
longer wore the fine kalasiri and jewels of a princess. Nor did she wear the
rough burlap and shackles of a slave. This night she stood in the ancient armor
of Requiem, her breastplate engraved with the holy birch leaves, her green shield
inlaid with silver stars. She drew her ancient longsword, the fabled Amerath,
sword of her ancestor, Prince Relesar Aeternum.

If I die, I die
free. I die as a warrior of Requiem.

She raced into the
tunnels.

She ran through
darkness.

She ran through a
nightmare of harpies, her sword swinging, cutting into them. Hers was an
ancient blade, the sword of Relesar himself, forged in dragonfire. The harpies
were clumsy in the tunnels, unable to turn around, and Meliora was fast, agile,
leaping between the chambers, her sword flashing. Once she would skip through
the halls of a palace, but today she moved through darker, holier halls, the
chambers of her true people. Today she filled these halls with the death of her
enemies. Her halo crackled above her head, woven of fire, and the blood of her
enemies coated her blade and armor.

"Requiem is
eternal!" she cried out.

Across the tunnels, her
fellow Vir Requis answered her call. "Requiem is eternal!"

They fought together,
moving through the shadows. Many fell. The corpses of thousands fed the
harpies. But still Meliora fought on.

Meliora did not know if
her family still lived. She had not seen her father or sister since the first
assault a night and day ago. But she knew that Requiem still lived—within those
who still fought with her, within her own breast. Her blood perhaps was mixed
but her heart was pure, and her sword sang but one song—a song of dragons.

She kept moving,
stepping over corpses of Vir Requis and harpies, passing the armory, the
library, the wine cellars, finally entering the deepest passageways, places
where no foot had stepped for centuries.

And there ahead,
cloaked in shadows and drenched in blood, he stood.

Her brother.

Ishtafel.

He stood over a pile of
dead children, his back toward her. As Meliora stepped into the chamber, she
saw him drive down his spear, slaying a girl. Only one child still lived here
now—a little boy cowering in the corner. Just a single soul among so much death.

"Ishtafel!" Meliora
said.

He tugged his lance
free from the dead girl. Slowly, he turned toward her, armor creaking. No, not
armor—new skin of metal to replace the true skin Tash had burned off. In the
holes of his golden mask, his eyes narrowed in amusement. His wings spread out,
dripping rot.

"Hello, my dear
sister."

She trembled, but she
forced herself to step forward, to raise her chin. A child still lived here.
She would save him. She would save whoever she still could, even if it were
just one soul.

"Ishtafel,"
she said. "As a daughter of Aeternum, as an heiress to Requiem, I banish
you from this place. Leave now. Leave this land and I will spare your
life." Meliora raised her sword, forcing herself to stare steadily into
his eyes. "This is Amerath, the Amber Sword, the ancestral blade of my
line, which slew many of my people's enemies. Retreat to the south lest it slay
you too."