A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3) (26 page)

His heart thumped and his chest
rose and fell. He had rehearsed this speech all day. His fingers
trembled, and he took a shaky breath, expecting his father to beam,
to embrace him, to shower him with love and approval.

But Frey only stared silently,
no emotion on his face.

Leresy hissed. His breath rose
to a pant. He pushed down with his foot, pressing Tilla's face hard
against the tiles. The axehands knelt around him, holding the
prisoners still. Frey only stared, eyes cold, saying nothing.

"Well, Father?" Leresy
demanded, able to wait no longer. "Here is your key to victory!
Here is your vengeance, the prize you have sought for years. I
brought you victory, I brought you Shari's killer, and I brought you
Relesar. I brought you all that you've ever desired. Will you not
speak?"

Frey reached across the table.
Leresy thought he'd grab the Genesis Scope, but instead, his hand
clutched a meat cleaver. Finally he spoke.

"Is that so, Leresy?"
he said, his voice dripping the same old disgust. "Did you
bring me all I've ever desired? What of my desire for a worthy son,
a noble heir of my own blood?"

Leresy pounded his chest. "I
am here, Father! I've proven myself worthy. Reward me!"

Frey lifted the meat cleaver and
turned the blade, letting the torchlight glimmer against it. "Is
that all you seek, Leresy? Rewards? A treat for a begging dog? You
have spoken here of yourself, of your own vainglory, of the gifts you
demand. Not once have you mentioned the glory of Requiem, the honor
and strength of our empire. Even now, as the Resistance smashes
against our walls, as blood and fire purifies our empire... even now,
you only care for your own power."

Leresy realized his error and
his eyes watered. He screamed hoarsely, already knowing it was too
late.

"I care for you, Father!"
His voice sounded too young to him, no longer the voice of a hero,
but the voice of frightened child. "I brought these for you,
for—"

"For me?" Frey
snorted. "I am a soldier. I fight for the eternal glory of
Requiem. It is Requiem I serve, not my own hubris. It seems you've
learned nothing from me. Still, after all the times I've disciplined
you, you care only for yourself." He turned to stare at the
axehands. "Men! Take the girl to the Red Tower. Chain her but
do not torture her; that will be my pleasure. Take the boy down into
my bedchambers. Chain him there; should Valien reach my halls, I
would have him gaze upon the boy."

The axehands bowed and hissed.

"Yes, God of Dragons, Lord
of Spiral."

They retreated from the chamber,
robes swaying, clutching the screaming and kicking prisoners.

Leresy stood alone before his
father.

"Well, Father?" he
demanded, tears in his eyes. "Will you say no more?"

Frey fixed him with a glare.
"What would you have me say?"

Leresy snorted a laugh, but it
sounded more like as a sob. "Thank you, son! You saved the
empire! You made me proud!" Tears ran down Leresy's cheeks and
his lips shook. "I love you, son. Welcome back to my court."
He hated himself, but he couldn't stop his tears, and he couldn't
stop his knees from shaking. "Any of those thing would do
splendidly, Father. But you have no emotion in that rotten,
shriveled-up organ you call a heart. Even now, as I won you the war,
as I brought you all your desires, you only stare at me like... like
I'm some worm. Like I'm nothing but a common soldier." He
screamed, tears falling. "I am your son!"

Frey stared at him silently for
a long moment.

"Are
you quite finished?" he finally said. "Yes. Yes, you are
my son. As shameful as that is to admit, it's true. I do not know
why the gods have cursed me so. I had two strong children; one now
lies dead, and the other flies against me. Alas, it is my son—my
son
,
who should be my greatest warrior—who snivels here before me,
weeping like a child. But yes, Leresy. Yes, you are my son. And
yes, you brought me gifts that I desired. For that, you shall be
rewarded."

Leresy gasped. Hope sprang
inside him, and he rubbed his eyes.

"I... I will receive your
grace?" he whispered.

Frey lifted a whetting stone and
began sharpening his cleaver. "When the battle is over, and
we've crushed the Resistance, I will welcome you back into this city.
I'll give you a small house to live in, somewhere... far in the
shadows, out of my way. Perhaps in the slums around that brothel of
yours. You would like that. And you shall be allowed to live out
the rest of your days there, in the darkness, drunk and surrounded by
your whores."

Leresy took a step forward and
raised his fists. "I demand more! I demand to live in this
palace. I demand to be named your heir, Father!"

Again Frey snorted. "My
heir? I would sooner bed a peasant girl and name her whelp my heir
than you." He fixed Leresy with a stare like stabbing daggers.
"You will never be my heir. You will never be more than a
miserable drunk. Now leave this palace. It is forbidden to you."

Leresy stood speechless.

His hands dropped to his sides.

His mouth worked silently.

Frey walked around him, heading
toward the door. "And now I have a battle to win. I have a
Resistance to crush. When I return with the head of this Valien, I
expect to see you gone."

Leresy fell to his knees. He
reached out, grabbed his father's leg, and clung.

"Father, please!" he
said hoarsely. "I am your son!"

Frey grunted, kicked himself
free, and shoved Leresy down.

"And so you keep reminding
me," the emperor said. "It's a disgraceful truth I wish I
could forget. If you have any honor, boy, fly out now against the
Resistance and die in their fire. That is the greatest gift you
could give me."

With that, Emperor Frey exited
his chambers, leaving Leresy in darkness, tears, and old clutching
pain. He lay on the floor, punched the tiles, and screamed.

 
 
VALIEN

He ran up the stairs, scales
clattering, and slammed into the palace doors. They creaked and
stood strong. Valien cursed, stepped down a few steps, and ran
again. He was a burly dragon, yet when he slammed into the palace
doors again, he groaned and thought his bones would crack.

"Valien, we can't hold them
back much longer!" Sila shouted, standing upon the staircase.
Ash, sweat, and lacerations covered the Tiran captain. He fired an
arquebus, smoke blasted, and he spat.

The staircase led from the
Square of Cadigus, a cobbled expanse larger than most towns, to the
palace gates. The remains of the Resistance covered the steps,
swords and guns in hand. Looking upon them, Valien felt his heart
sink.

How many were left? Four
hundred? Five? No more than that. Horror pounded through him.
They had flown here with thousands... now only a handful remained.

These surviving resistors were
firing arquebuses. The smoke hung thicker than storm clouds. Only
Kaelyn and Erry held no guns; they were shining Genesis Scopes in
every direction, holding back the swarms.

The Legions covered the city
streets, the square below, and the sky above. Hundreds of thousands
swarmed, a tightening noose, a puddle of scales and flames. Wherever
the beams shone, imperial dragons fell from the sky. Wherever men
charged in armor, swinging swords, arquebuses cut them down.
Thousands fell. Their corpses covered the square in a demonic carpet
of flesh. Yet for every legionary who died, more emerged. Cannons
fired from within their ranks. Dragonfire blasted. Arrows flew.
Every moment another resistor screamed and fell.

Valien slammed into the palace
gates again. At his sides, two other dragons, gruff warriors of the
Resistance, charged with him. Yet the doors were too thick, their
oak iron-banded; even three dragons could not break them.

"Valien!" Kaelyn cried
below, shining her Genesis Scope at a swooping battalion of dragons,
sending them falling. "Valien, hurry!"

He looked upon his forces and
could barely breathe. They were trapped here; the enemy surrounded
them, miles deep, a colony of ants surrounding a piece of fruit.
More resistors fell, torn apart by cannons and claws. Soon they were
down to four hundred men, then only three. Valien could feel those
old hands clutching his throat again.

We
will all die.

He
tossed back his head and roared, blowing fire.

Then
we will die fighting.

He beat his wings and soared.
He shouted commands at the two dragons who fought by his side.

"With me! Fly high."

They ascended along the palace
walls, leaving the doors below. The palace bricks blurred. Arrows
fired from slits, clattering against them, and one sank into Valien's
shoulder. He grunted but kept flying.

A thousand imperial dragons
howled above. Their claws reached out. Their maws opened, swaying
in heat waves, smelters spilling fire.

"Kaelyn," Valien
shouted, "your beam!"

He kept soaring, his warriors at
his sides. The imperial dragons shot down. Fire blasted, and Valien
winced and rose through the flame. One of his dragons screamed in
the fire, lost his magic, and fell burning.

"Kaelyn!"

The Legions cackled above, their
claws extended, their fangs bared, a shimmering cloud of steel and
scale, and Valien kept soaring, flying into his death. Fire blazed,
and his second warrior howled and fell.

Valien winced, seconds from
slamming into the enemy.

Red light blazed.

The Genesis Beam slammed against
the horde.

The imperial dragons lost their
magic. Dozens tumbled down, screaming troops in steel.

Just below the beam, Valien
growled and kept soaring. Upon the stairs below, Kaelyn kept raising
the beam, clearing a path through the sky.

Through fire and smoke, Valien
saw his target—the battlements of the palace hall. They overlooked
the square, lined with cannons. Beyond them, Tarath Imperium rose
from flames, but Valien did not care for that tower now. He shot
toward the hall's crenellations.

Cannons blasted his way and
Valien banked, dodging the missiles, and rose higher. He blew his
flames.

Gunners screamed and fell
ablaze. Some rolled upon the walls, clutching at their heated armor.
Others tumbled off the battlements, living comets, burning and
screaming before crashing onto the stairs below. Barrels of
gunpowder exploded. The walls shook. Fires blasted out.

Valien shot toward a cannon that
stood between two merlons. Its gunners were busy reloading; one man
was pressing a ramrod down the barrel, while another was already
lighting the fuse. When they saw Valien charge toward them, a
howling silver dragon, they leaped back and drew their swords.

With a roar, Valien clawed them
apart. They fell lacerated from the walls. Tail lashing, knocking
back charging men, Valien grabbed the cannon.

He roared. The barrel was still
searing hot; it burned his feet. He grunted and beat his wings,
struggling to rise. The cannon must have weighed more than he did.
He grimaced and lifted the gun into the air. With two great flaps of
his wings, he cleared the battlements and began his descent.

Dragons howled and charged
around him. Kaelyn was blazing her beam, carving him a path through
the horde. Arrows flew. Two slammed into Valien's chest, and he
roared and nearly dropped the cannon. He plummeted down, nearly at a
free fall. The stairs rushed up toward him. Hardly three hundred
resistors remained fighting; the rest lay dead upon the steps.
Groaning, the searing barrel clutched in his claws, Valien stretched
his wings wide. He slowed his fall and dropped the cannon onto the
stairs, its muzzle pointing at the door. It came free from his grip
with bits of seared flesh, cracking the stone steps.

"Clear the way!" he
howled.

Between him and the door above,
arquebusers moved aside, firing their weapons at the encroaching
Legions. Bleeding and burnt, nearly too weary for fire, Valien
managed a puff of flame, igniting the cannon's fuse.

He winced and stumbled aside.

The cannon fired.

Smoke blasted out, covering the
stairs. The cannon flew backward, tumbling down the staircase,
crashing into charging legionaries. Its projectile slammed into the
palace gates.

With flame and a shower of
splinters, the doors crashed open.

Valien bellowed and raced up the
stairs.

"Charge!" he shouted,
his voice a mere rasp, but loud enough to carry across the battle.
"Resistance, into the palace. Death to Cadigus!"

The remains of his forces
howled, three hundred scarred and burnt souls. They charged. They
swung swords and screamed for blood.

"Death to Cadigus!"

Shouting, Valien ran through the
smoke. Still in dragon form, he crashed through the shattered doors
and into the palace hall.

Ahead in the shadows, palisades
of columns held a grand, vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of
flying dragons. A mosaic of aerial battles covered the floor,
depicting wyverns and phoenixes. Far ahead rose the Ivory Throne,
but tonight it stood barren.

Between Valien and the throne,
hissing and glaring, stood a hundred dragons. Each wore an iron mask
like a muzzle; the metal was bolted on to the flesh. Each was
missing his front paw; instead, their legs ended with raised axe
heads.

"Hail the red spiral!"
the deformed beasts cried. "Hail Frey, God of Dragons!"

Valien blasted his dragonfire.

His flames filled the hall.

The axehands shrieked and
charged.

With a roar, a green dragon shot
into the hall, flew over Valien's head, and blazed a beam of red
light.