Pillars of Dragonfire (8 page)

"Whatever they
are," Lucem said, "I wager they're not friendly. And sadly, not very
edible, judging by the smell."

Meliora looked over her
shoulder and cried out. "Warriors of Requiem! Forward! Fly with me!"

Dozens of dragons rose
from the crowd, soon hundreds, then thousands. This nation of freed
slaves—their freedom only days old—had no army. But they had already fought
one battle, defeating the seraphim over Tofet, and already they knew who their
warriors were. The stronger dragons now flew forth—those who had wielded
pickaxes or hauled bitumen in the fields of their captivity. The elders, the
children, the weak, the wounded—they moved back to fly behind the defenders.

When Meliora looked
across the crowd of fighters, she saw her father flying there. Jaren, a green
dragon, was a healer, a priest, not a warrior. In human form, he was tall and
haggard, and as a dragon he was long, thin, older than the others.

She flew up to him.
"Father, I need you to fly back, to protect the elders and children.
I—"

"I fight."
Jaren stared at her, eyes hard. "I'm a healer, yes. And I'm old. And I'm
thin. But my fire is still hot, and my faith in Requiem strong. I fight with
you."

The shrieks from the
north rose louder now, morphing into twisted laughter. Meliora sneered. The
distant beings were closer now, only several miles away. They had large,
feathered wings, dark colored, indeed like vultures. They seemed the size of
dragons, and she estimated their number at a thousand. Dark clouds gathered
above them, as if the sun itself hated the sight of them, shielding its light
from their wretchedness. With every mile they crossed, coming closer, disgust
grew in Meliora.

"Ugly
buggers," Lucem muttered.

Meliora swallowed the
instinct to gag. She could finally see the creatures clearly. Indeed, they were
as large as dragons, perhaps larger. Yet their bodies were humanoid, female and
withered. Dented slabs of armor covered their chests. They had no arms, only
wide wings with oily, rotting feathers, tipped with claws. The creatures' heads
were massive, large as dragon heads, yet still human—the faces of crones,
wrinkled, covered with moles, the noses long, the teeth sharp. Serpents grew
from their heads instead of hair, hissing, tongues darting. Worst of all,
however, were the creature's legs. While their bodies were those of giant
women, the legs were those of vultures, ending with black talons the length of
sabers.

"Harpies,"
Meliora said. She spat out fire.

She had heard of such creatures.
Every son and daughter of the Thirteenth Dynasty of Saraph had. Thousands of
years ago, they said, the ancient gods of Edinnu had tried to create life, to
forge servants of beauty and holiness. Their first attempt had failed. Instead
of beings of beauty and nobility, their creations had bloated, withered, rotted.
The gods had envisioned pure immortals, their skin soft and unblemished, their
hair golden and flowing. Yet boils covered that skin, and nests of snakes
topped their heads instead of halos. Disgusted, the gods had caged their
deformed daughters, deeming them harpies—cursed creatures. The gods had
learned from their mistake. Their second creations flourished, the mighty
seraphim. Yet the harpies lingered on, caged, growing mad over the millennia.

And now they're
here,
Meliora thought, staring at them. Creatures of purest hatred,
creatures who lived for nothing but slaughter. There was only one soul who
could have freed them, who could command them.

"The King of
Saraph," she whispered. "Ishtafel. These are his servants now."

The thousand harpies
screeched and raised their talons. Their wings beat, blasting their stench onto
the dragons. Their jaws opened wide, dropping halfway down their chests,
exposing rows of fangs and white tongues. Their talons reached out, tipped with
dry blood, and the snakes on their heads writhed and added their shrill voices
to the chorus.

"Weredragons,
weredragons!" the harpies cried. "Creatures foul, creatures cruel.
Slay them, slay them, sisters! Slay them for our master."

The harpies cackled,
and their saliva fell like rain. Their eyes blazed, bugging out, veined and
bloodshot. They stormed forth, crossing the last mile toward the dragons. The
creatures were outnumbered but seemed to know no fear, only rage and hatred.

Meliora reared and
blasted her fire skyward, her white pillar of light, a beacon of strength for
her people.

"Requiem!"
she called. "Hear me, Requiem! A new battle approaches. Fight! Fight for
your nation, for your stars, for your lives!"

Meliora charged,
roaring fire. Her fellow dragons flew around her, hundreds of warriors. Elory
and Lucem flew to her left, fire blazing. Her father flew to her right. Above,
bellowing with rage, flew Vale, her brother; the blue dragon blasted a great
stream of fire that rained sparks.

As the flames raced
across the sky, the harpies opened their jaws wide. Jets of ice blasted from
their mouths, casting out frosted clouds. The frozen pillars thrust toward the
dragons, icicles the size of oaks.

Fire and ice slammed
together.

The dragonfire
scattered, dispersed into fountains that rained down as sparks. Some of the icy
shards melted, but many spears of ice made it through the inferno, dripping and
still sharp.

Dragons screamed as the
ice slammed against them. An icicle, large as a battering ram, drove into a
dragon at Meliora's side; it pierced his chest and burst out from his back. The
dragon screamed and lost his magic, returning to the form of a young man. The
icy shard tore the smaller human body apart, and the man tumbled down, halved
and gushing blood. Other icy shards flew all around, cutting into other
dragons, ripping wings, tearing scales.

Meliora howled.
Instinctively, she banked left, dodging a pillar of ice. Guilt and terror
filled her as the ice slammed into a dragon behind her, sending a woman
plunging down toward the desert. More bodies rained. Smoke, frost, and fire
filled the sky.

"Burn them
down!" Meliora shouted. "Burn them all!"

She inhaled deeply,
prepared to blow more fire. Ahead of her, several harpies emerged from clouds
of frost and fire, cackling and flying toward her. Massive talons—larger than
her claws—reached toward Meliora.

She screamed and
blasted fire, but her flames missed the harpies. She tried to bank but slammed
into another dragon. Harpy talons scraped across her shoulder, ripping out
scales. Blood spurted and Meliora yowled in pain. Another harpy swooped from
above, landed on her back, and dug its fangs into her.

Meliora nearly lost her
magic.

She growled, refusing to
lose it.

She swiped her tail
like a scorpion, driving it into the harpy on her back. She felt the tail's
spikes pierce rotted flesh, and gray blood sprayed. With a roar, Meliora swiped
her claws, knocking back a harpy ahead of her. She blasted more fire, her wings
scattering sparks and smoke, trying to hold them back.

Yet the creatures were
everywhere. Their faces, bloated to obscene size, leered all around Meliora.
The eyes bugged out, bloodshot. The snakes on their heads thrust forward,
snapping their mouths. Another harpy thrust its talons, slamming them into
Meliora, cutting her again, ripping her chest. She yowled.

She blasted more
dragonfire.

Her white flames washed
over the harpy assaulting her. The creature's wings ignited. The snakes on its
head burned. For a moment the harpy seemed like a phoenix, woven of nothing but
fire. Then it fell. Another flew forth, and Meliora spun around, lashed her
tail, and drove the spikes into its head.

The harpy's head
shattered, leaking its innards, but the snakes upon it still lived. They coiled
around Meliora's tail, biting her. Pain pierced Meliora. Poison spread through
her. She bellowed in agony, twisted around, and blasted more fire.

Her own flames washed
across her tail, burning the snakes, cauterizing her wounds. The shattered
harpy fell.

For a brief moment,
Meliora could breathe, could spare the battle a glance. It seemed barely any
harpies had fallen, yet the corpses of Vir Requis still rained. Hundreds
already covered the desert below. Whenever the dragons blasted fire, the
harpies responded with clouds of ice, blocking the flames. Whenever the dragons
charged, the harpies spat out their icicles, piercing scales. Every instant,
another dragon lost his or her magic, falling down in human form, frozen,
bleeding, dead or dying.

We're not an army,
Meliora realized, heart sinking.
We're only freed slaves. Too weary. Too
famished. Too weak. They will slay us all.

She tossed back her
head and roared.

If we die, we die
fighting.

"Light the sky
with fire!" she cried. "Dragons, fight for your stars! Fight for your
lives! Fight or Requiem!"

She beat her wings with
all her strength, driving forth toward the enemy.

Her family fought with
her. Her sister, a slim lavender dragon. Her brother, a great blue dragon, his
fire a mighty stream. Her father, green and wise, now roaring with fury.
Hundreds of other dragons—they were all her family now.

A harpy flew toward
Meliora, blasting not icicles but a cloud of frost. The frozen miasma flowed
across Meliora, and her scales chipped, and her muscles stiffened. She could
barely breathe, but she managed to blow her dragonfire, piercing a way through
the frozen cloud. She stormed forth, snapped her jaws, drove her teeth into the
harpy's neck. She pulled back, tearing out rotted flesh. The harpy fell. More
flew around her, freezing her scales with their breath. Meliora spun in
circles, spreading her fire, melting the ice. Her claws lashed, scattering the
gray blood of the creatures.

Her blood spilled but
her hope soared. Slowly, one by one, the harpies were falling. Elory roasted
one with dragonfire. Vale cast another down, tearing the beast open with his
claws. Lucem and Jaren fought back to back, flames forming a ring around them,
burning the harpies. Thousands of other dragons fought with them, finally
overwhelming the enemies. Meliora's flames were down to sparks, and her blood
dripped, and with her final drop of strength she slew the last of the
creatures.

She had vowed not to
land until they reached Requiem, but Meliora could barely cling to her magic.
She flew down and all but crashed onto a rocky plain. Corpses spread around
her, some smashed beyond recognition; what the harpy claws hadn't done, the
fall from the sky had. Meliora released her magic and lay among the dead,
lacerations and frostbite covering her.

Other dragons landed
around her and released their magic. They too were wounded. Gashes bled across
them, left by talons and fangs. Frost covered some, and others nursed swelling
serpent bites. Hundreds of wounded lay among the dead. Healers rushed among
them, bearing what meager supplies they had—the bandages and ointments they
had taken from their humble huts in Tofet.

So many dead,
Meliora thought, staring into the eyes of the fallen around her.
Only three
days out of Tofet, and so many fallen already.

Jaren came walking
toward her, back in human form. The tall priest still wore his burlap robes
from Tofet, and he leaned on his wooden staff, limping from an old wound. Frost
covered his beard, melting as the clouds parted and the sun emerged. He knelt
above Meliora.

"I will pray for
your healing, daughter." He placed his hands upon her.

"No." Meliora
struggled to her feet, removing his hands. "Heal the others first. Heal
those who followed me to war. I'll wait."

Those words hurt him;
she saw that. She could see the thoughts in his eyes.

You are my precious
daughter. I lost you before you were even born, only to meet you twenty-seven
years later. I can't lose you again.

"I'm fine,"
she whispered, though every word hurt to utter. "Pray for the warriors of
Requiem. They need you more than I do."

As he turned toward the
others, praying to the stars to heal their wounds, Meliora raised her eyes,
seeking more harpies in the sky.

Instead she saw two
distant figures—dragons, their scales bright—approaching from the south.

A red dragon and a black
dragon. Meliora's breath caught. She raised her hand, summoning them.

The two dragons flew
closer and saw her signal. They spiraled down and landed before her, winded,
puffing out smoke and spurts of flame. Both were young and slender, their
scales clanking as they breathed raggedly. When they had caught their breath,
they released their magic, becoming two young women clad in white livery—one
with dark hair and olive skin, the other pale and sporting red stubble on her
head.

Meliora stepped closer
to them. "Kira! Talana! Tell me what you saw."

A lifetime ago—stars,
it had been only months!—the two young women had served Meliora in the palace,
her loyal handmaidens. Meliora still felt shame at remembering who she had been
then—a pampered, ignorant princess who had treated Kira and Talana as one
might treat pups. She had saved them from Malok, the bronze bull, and burn
marks still covered their arms, the scars perhaps permanent. That had been the
day Meliora had changed, the day her innocence had burned away in the bronze
bowels of Malok. Today Kira and Talana served her not as handmaidens but as
scouts, two of the fastest dragons in Requiem, their eyes sharp, their wings
swift, their loyalty unquestionable. As the nation of Requiem flew across the
wilderness, Kira and Talana were its eyes in the distance. But the two looked
not to the north, their destination, but south—back toward Tofet, the land
they were fleeing, the land where Ishtafel still lurked.

"My queen!"
they said, kneeling before her. "You're wounded!"