Crown of Dragonfire (12 page)

I can't do this,
he thought. Only thirty years old—a babe among the immortal seraphim—he had
thought himself brave, a great conqueror. He had vowed to his Mother: I will
show you my strength! I will build an empire for you. I will crush Requiem!

He had slain the dragons
in their sky. With thousands of flaming chariots, he had burned them down. Yet
now, here in these tunnels, he fought the creatures face to face. Here was no
realm of fire; here was blood, guts, bones, torn bodies and organs across the
walls, and fear, and screams. Here he would die, no conqueror, just a soldier,
screaming as the shapeshifters tore him apart.

The weredragons
charged. Side by side with Reehan, Ishtafel fought.

They moved through the
tunnels, thousands of seraphim behind them, thousands of weredragons ahead.
They climbed rough staircases, ran through craggy tombs and libraries, fought
in cisterns, in granaries, in burrows barely wide enough to walk through. And
everywhere the dead fell, seraphim, weredragons, piles of corpses underground.

As he kept marching
through the tunnels, cutting weredragons down, some of Ishtafel's fear eased.
Bloodlust rose to replace it. He was surviving. He was killing. He would win
this.

"I slay them for you, Reehan!"
he cried, driving his sword into a weredragon child, sending the girl crashing
down. "I conquer this land in your honor, my love. When we return home,
victorious, we shall wed in glory."

She laughed at his
side, lashing her blades at an axe-wielding weredragon. "Let us wed here, my
love! Let us wed in darkness and blood, for this is a domain of more glory than
the gold of Saraph."

Her eyes shone as she
gazed at him. Bloodied, her blades held before her, Reehan seemed more
beautiful than ever. Here was no pampered lady like so many in Saraph. Here was
a tigress, a huntress hungry for prey. Her wings dripped the blood of her
enemies, and her smile was hot, deadly, lusting for him.

She is my love,
Ishtafel thought,
the only seraph worthy to be my bride. She will bear me
great heirs.

"Very well!" Ishtafel
said, laughing. He swung his sword at another weredragon, cutting the child
down. "Let us wed here upon a pile of corpses, and you will wear their blood as
your gown."

She saluted with her
blade, laughing. "We will always hunt together, my love! We—"

A hoarse cry rolled
over her words.

A young weredragon
woman charged down the tunnel, screaming, thrusting a longsword.

"Murderers!" the
weredragon howled. Her blade plunged down, crashed through Reehan's armor, and
drove through her chest and out of her back.

The weredragon might as
well have stabbed Ishtafel's chest. His heart seemed to shatter inside him.

Reehan fell, the blade
piercing her, and gazed at him, reaching out to him.

"My love . . .," she
whispered, and then her head rolled back, and she said no more.

Ishtafel screamed.

Something tore in his
throat and filled his mouth with blood.

He leaped forward,
blade swinging, and cut down the weredragon woman, nearly severing her entire torso
with a single blow. He roared. He fought in a fury, lashing his blade into
another weredragon, another, tears in his eyes.

"Reehan!" he cried. "Reehan!"

He knelt beside her,
shivering, coated with the weredragons, and held her hands.

"Please, Reehan,
please, my love. Wake up. Wake up, great huntress."

But she only lay
limply, eyes gazing at nothing.

Slowly, Ishtafel rose
to his feet. He took one of her swords. He stared forward, hissing out his
breath. Around him, his soldiers gathered, warrior seraphim in steel.

"Enough!" Ishtafel
shouted. "Enough killing."

"My lord?" asked one
soldier. "Let us avenge her death. Let us slay them all, let—"

"No." Ishtafel's fists
trembled around his hilts. "No, we will not grant them the mercy of death. The
living weredragons will return with us to Saraph . . . and they will hurt. They
will scream like she screamed." His voice trembled with rage. "For eternity
they will suffer."

His eyes opened.

The echoes of battle
faded.

Once more he lay in his
chamber—five hundred years later—on a soft bed, surrounded by wealth.

Just a dream. Just a
memory.

"I never forgot you, Reehan,"
Ishtafel whispered.

He would have given the
world—all this world he had conquered—to have Reehan lie here in his bed. To
hold her. Kiss her. Love her. Even after all these centuries, Ishtafel could
remember every detail of her: the curve of her hips, her crooked smile, the
light in her green eyes, the flash of her blade.

"I conquered this world
for Saraph, but what is it without you, Reehan? There will never be another
like you. You were a huntress of light and blood. Never more will another shine
with your light."

He rose from bed. He
walked across the mosaic on his floor, the tiles forming the shape of slain
dragons. He pulled open his curtains, and he stared out upon the City of Kings.

The roads of Shayeen
flared out like a great wagon wheel, lined with obelisks, temples, forts, and
countless stone homes. Palm trees swayed, lush gardens flowered, and many ships
sailed on the river. Beyond the horizon, Ishtafel could just make it out—the
edge of Tofet.

"You will suffer,
weredragons, for as long as I like," he whispered. "Eventually I will grant you
the mercy of death, but not yet . . . not until I'm done hurting you."

He clenched his fists,
lowered his head, and saw it again—the weredragons, his lover dying in his
arms, and the endless tunnels coiling deeper, deeper into endless darkness.

 
 
MELIORA

They were walking across
barren, rocky hills when the soil rose to wrathful life.

Dawn was spilling
across the hills, but still Meliora and Elory trudged on. They had been walking
all night, they were weary, and they kept scanning the sky for Ishtafel's
chariots. But Meliora wanted to keep walking for as long as she could.

Every hour that we
dally is another hour my people suffer,
she thought.
Every hour before I
return with the key is another hour Ishtafel is tormenting the slaves.

"Are you all right to
keep going?" she asked Elory. "Just for a little longer until we reach those
taller hills." She pointed ahead. "There might be caves there or canyons,
places to hide and sleep."

Even though dawn had
just risen, it was already hot, the air thick as soup. Sweat beaded on Elory's
brow and clung to the brown stubble on her head. Her eyes were glazed, and dust
coated her burlap cloak and bare feet. She nodded.

"We'll keep walking."
She smiled thinly. "I used to haul bitumen in the pits of Tofet. I can handle a
little hike."

But Meliora was not so
sure. It was true that Elory had lived a life of labor—but also a life of
malnutrition and beatings, leaving her far shorter and frailer than Meliora.
Though her wings were gone, Meliora still had the body of a seraph—tall,
perfectly proportioned, a work of art. Elory was small and fragile and already
wheezing as they climbed the hills.

"Elory." Meliora's
voice was soft. "I never told you this, but . . . I'm sorry." She lowered her
head. "For what you had to endure in Tofet. For what you all had to endure. I
was living in luxury in the world's greatest palace, just a silly little girl.
I chased butterflies, I laughed at puppet shows, I danced at banquets, forever
a child, forever wrapped in silk and light. All that while, I should have
known." Her eyes stung and her fists clenched. "I should have traveled across
the river—just a couple hours away!—and seen how the slaves lived. I should
have . . . done something. Somehow saved you. Somehow convinced my Mother to
release the Vir Requis, or somehow fought against her, or . . . something.
Bring you food and water. Visit you and heal you. Pray for you. But I simply
lived like a pampered fool while my sister, my family, my people cried out for
help." A tear streamed down her cheek. "I'm ashamed, and I'm sorry, Elory."

Elory stopped walking.
She approached Meliora and held her hands. Elory's hands were small, dark, and
callused, barely larger than the hands of a child. Meliora's hands were long
and slender, pale, and soft, the hands of one who had spent her life in
idleness.

"You did help us, my
sister." Elory's eyes shone damply. "For so many years, I prayed to the stars.
We all did. We prayed for a savior. And the stars sent you to us. My sister."
Elory smiled through her tears. "You came to us in our hour of greatest need,
and you led us into the City of Kings, marching at the lead of a nation. You
rose before us as a dragon, blowing white fire, a pillar we will always follow.
You fought for us. You gave us hope."

"I gave you nothing but
death." Meliora's heart clenched, and she pulled her hands back. "I fought
Ishtafel but I lost our battle, and he slew thousands to retaliate. Their blood
is on my hands."

Elory squared her
shoulders. "You are not responsible for those deaths, only Ishtafel. You did
not lose your battle, sister. It was your gauntlet of fire. Perhaps you had to
lose your seraph wings before you could find the wings of a dragon. We will
find this Keymaker, and we will find our sky. And then, Meliora . . . then all
of Requiem will follow your fire again, but that day, we will follow you as
dragons."

Meliora lowered her
head. "I cannot be that heroine, that leader you need. I'm no great warrior
like Ishtafel. I'm not wise like our father. I'm not clever and quick like
Tash, not strong like Vale. I'm not brave like you, Elory. I'm just . . . just
a pampered princess. Innocent. As new to this world as a babe."

"Maybe." Elory nodded. "But
you have us to help you."

Meliora laughed and
wiped her eyes. "That's a little better. But you're right, Elory. You know what
they say, don't you? About losing a battle but winning the war? Well, I don't
want any war." She pulled the broken key from her pocket. "I just want us to
fix this damn key and get everyone to fly away—fly all the way across desert,
sea, and forest—to Requiem."

"To Requiem," Elory
whispered.

They turned back
westward, and they continued walking across the hills. The sun had risen over
the horizon now, casting its light over a rocky landscape. The Te'ephim River
gushed to their left, tumbling over boulders and through canyons. Along the
previous miles of their journey, the river had fed rushes, grass, and trees
along its bank, a source of fruits and nuts. Here, however, the land was
barren. Nothing but boulders rose along the river, and even moss did not grow
on them. The hills ahead were lifeless, sprouting not a blade of grass, a dead,
tan color like bones draped with mummified skin. The hills grew taller ahead,
jagged and cruel and difficult to climb.

This is a cursed
land,
Meliora thought.

As they kept walking,
the sense of dread grew in Meliora. It was too quiet here. No birds flew, and
even no insects scurried underfoot. The place smelled wrong too—a muddy, wormy
scent, faintly tainted with ash.

Meliora and Elory had
crested a hilltop when the earth began to shake.

Pebbles cascaded down
the hillside, and cracks raced along the earth, thin as strands of hair. The
earth in the valley below churned like a pit of tar.

"Earthquake," Elory
whispered.

Meliora frowned. "No.
Something trapped in the mud." She gasped and pointed. "Look!"

Shapes were flapping in
the mud in the valley, perhaps large fish, rising and falling. Stones cascaded
around them, and bubbles rose in the mud and popped. A long form, similar to a
human arm, rose from the earth, coated in the mud, then fell.

"They're people!" Elory
said. "People trapped in the mud!" She began to run downhill into the valley. "Hurry,
Meliora. We can still save them. They're still alive!"

"Wait!" Meliora said,
reaching out to grab her sister, but Elory was running too quickly into the
valley.

The things in the mud
were rising taller, dragging themselves out of the earth. Slowly they took
form, rising as tall as men, dripping soil. Rocks were embedded into their
torsos, and worms crawled across them. They were vaguely humanoid, their arms
handless, their heads misshapen lumps. At first Meliora thought them creatures
formed of the soil, but when she hurried after Elory, she saw that ribs
protruded from the beings' muddy chests, and red hearts pulsed within them,
coated with soil and riddled with maggots.

Elory skidded to a halt
and gasped, and Meliora came to stand beside her. Sucking, wet sounds rose
behind them, and Meliora spun around to see more of the creatures rising on the
hills behind her, blocking her retreat.

"What are they?" Elory
whispered.

Meliora thought she
knew, and her belly curdled. She was about to reply when the creatures
screamed.

They were screams of
rage, of pain, of hatred. Horrible sounds, wet, gurgling, anguished, the
screams of drowning animals. Bubbles rose and burst across the creatures,
seeping black tar like blood.

"A creator!" one of the
creatures cried, opening a mouth full of broken stone teeth. It was taller than
the others. Unlike its comrades, it had a soft skull like wet papyrus, full of
mud. In two dark sockets, eyes moved on stalks, like worms inside burrows. A
crown topped its head, formed of two jawbones strung together with tendons, as
if this golem were king of its kind. It raised a dripping arm and pointed at
Meliora. It had no hand, only the hints of finger bones sticking out from the
mud like twigs. "A cursed creator! Make her pay. Strip off her flesh! Make her one
of us."

"One of us," chanted
the creatures.

The creatures began to
advance toward her and Elory, raising their dripping hands.