Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (20 page)

I'm no longer the
sheltered, pampered girl that I was. I am the wind. I am fire.

In her eyes, she saw
starlight.

She saw birch forests
below her, a dragon constellation above, marble columns in the distance.

The vision was so real,
a vision of darkness and cold air and starlight, that she gasped.

I will fly like a
dragon.

She thundered onward
down the boulevard. Ishtafel still burned in the distance like a sun, charging
across the miles toward the city gates.

Meliora narrowed her
eyes.

No. I will not let
you win. I will not let you claim Elory and break her body. I will not let you
claim my womb for your son. I will win. I will fly like a dragon.

She reached toward the
straps of her breastplate. She tore the armor off. She cast it aside, and it
clanged onto the boulevard behind her.

She tossed off her
shield.

She cast her lance
aside.

She was not strong like
her brother. He was nearly eight feet of muscle, clad all in steel, his shield
and weapons heavy. She was weak in comparison. A thin girl, barely six feet
tall, short among the seraphim.

And lightweight.

Clad only in scraps of
muslin.

A spirit of fire.
I
am fire.

She punched the walls
of her chariot, cracking them, tearing them off, remaining with only a floor
and wheels.

I am fire on the
wind.

The firehorses raced onward
. . . and they were gaining on Ishtafel.

I am fire.

The firehorses charged.

I am the wind.

The chariot leaped over
a crack on the road, flew through the air, slammed down and kept charging
forth.

I am dragonfire.

With exploding flames
and a wordless cry, she reached her brother. The two chariots charged side by
side down the boulevard.

The statues of the gods
streamed at their sides. The city homes and temples blurred. They were halfway
through the city now, charging toward the gates.

"You're looking
rather ragged lately, sister!" Ishtafel called from his chariot.

Meliora snarled at him.
"And you're looking as pretty as always."

Not a scrape covered
Ishtafel. His hair still streamed like a perfect banner of silken gold, and his
armor still shone. His whip of fire still flew, slamming into the four
firehorses pulling his chariot onward. That chariot still crackled with pure
flame.

Meliora's chariot,
meanwhile, looked like a guttering campfire, its walls gone, its wheels
scattering black smoke and sparks. She herself looked no better; scrapes and
burns covered her flesh, peering between the tatters of her kalasiri. And yet
her firehorses still charged, faster than his now, less weight for them to
carry.

She inched ahead.

"You are falling
behind, brother!" she cried and laughed.

Ahead of her, beyond
the flaming manes of her steeds, she could see it. Still distant but looming.
The city gates. Beyond them lay a bridge over the water, a desert, and finally
the bronze bull, her destination, her triumph. The hooves still roared, a
deafening sound. The chariot rattled beneath her, knocking her teeth together,
clattering her spine, whipping her head up and down. But hope soared in
Meliora.

I'm going to win.

"You're forgetting
something, sister!" Ishtafel called to her. "I never lose a
battle."

His chariot charged
forward, then swerved and slammed against her wheel.

Flames exploded.

Meliora screamed.

Her chariot scraped
across the road, showering sparks, nearly tilting over. Chips of coal and brimstone
scattered, and fire roared.

Grinning through the
fire like a demon risen from the Abyss, Ishtafel swerved again, slamming his
heavier chariot against her.

Black smoke burst out.

Blades thrust from his
chariot's wheels, she saw. Black. Spinning. Shrieking. The scythes slammed into
her chariot, tearing through the floor, shattering a wheel.

Meliora screamed as one
corner of her chariot hit the ground. As her firehorses kept charging, her
chariot scraped across the cobblestones, gushing smoke.

"Ishtafel, stop
this!" Meliora shouted. "Sto—"

His chariot slammed
into hers again, ripping chunks off, spurting fire that flowed across her. She
screamed.

"Firehorses, ride!"
she cried. "Faster, faster!"

Her chariot charged
forth with a new burst of speed. Scraping across the stones. Tearing apart but
still storming forward at maddening speed, the world blurring around her. She
was slowly moving forward, leaving Ishtafel behind, escaping his scythes.

I have to escape
him. To keep going. To—

Ishtafel's whip
cracked.

The lash of fire flew
from behind and slammed into her shoulder. She yowled as her flesh tore, as her
blood sizzled.

The whip flew again,
wrapped around her wrist, and yanked.

She cried out. The whip
pulled her from her crumbling chariot, and she slammed onto the cobblestones.

The world shattered.

She bellowed—a hoarse,
animal sound.

Her chariot raced
onward, leaving her behind on the road.

No.

Meliora snarled, yanked
her arm free from the whip, beat her wings, and flew through the air.

The whip lashed again,
biting her side, ripping her skin. She kept flying, dived down, and landed back
onto what remained of her chariot. She grabbed the reins. The crowd roared at
her sides.

The whip kept beating
her, but she refused to fall again. She gripped the reins with both hands. She
kept charging forth, her firehorses galloping. The gates rose ahead of her now.
Only moments away. Massive gates, their archway tall as a temple, opened to
reveal the desert.

Only a bit of floor
remained on her chariot. One of its wheels was crooked, swaying madly,
screeching, casting out sparks. But she was still fast. She leaned forward,
eyes narrowed, staring at the city gates.

I am fast. I am
dragonfire. I will win.

A wordless cry pierced
the air, rising even louder than the roar of hooves.

A shadow fell upon her,
and Meliora looked up to see Ishtafel flying above, wings spread out, blocking
the sun. Beams of sunlight flared around him, and he plunged down, a swooping
god, his lance tipped with light.

Meliora stared, and for
an instant life froze. She stared upon her brother. Upon her death.

His lance thrust toward
her.

With a cry, Meliora
swerved.

The lance slammed down,
scraping across her hip, shedding her blood, then driving into her chariot's
wheel.

The wheel exploded with
a shower of coal and brimstone.

Ishtafel soared, and
finally the last remains of her chariot collapsed. The second wheel detached
and slammed down. The floor crumbled.

The firehorses ran
free.

Meliora's lips peeled
back in a savage snarl. She still gripped the reins. Her wings spread out. Her
feet scraped the cobblestones, then rose to stream behind her through the air.

She rode onward, no
chariot left, her body bleeding and broken. Still racing.

I am the wind. I am
fire. I am a dragon. I will win.

His whip flew again,
slamming into her wing, tearing out feathers, biting the bone.

Meliora cried out
hoarsely. Pain, white and searing, blinded her.

The wind whipped her
wings like more lashes. She slammed down against the cobblestones. Her knees
tore, and she howled in agony. Through narrowed eyes, she saw Ishtafel charging
onward. Leaving her behind.

The city gates loomed
ahead.

Meliora tried to spread
out her wings, to fly behind her firehorses again. She could not. She dragged
along the cobblestones, clinging to the reins, refusing to release her horses,
refusing to surrender, knowing she had lost. Every stone on the road tore
through her skin. Her brother charged forth in his flaming chariot, leaving her
in his wake. He streamed toward the gates, toward victory.

I've lost.
Tears
burned as she dragged behind her horses.
I've lost Elory's life. My own
life. I've lost everything. I—

Fire.

White hot, screaming,
streaming across the sky, fire greater than the flames of any chariot.

A roar shattered the
sky.

Fire.

A great pillar of heat.

Dragonfire.

From the inferno it soared—a
blue dragon, wreathed in flame, jaws open, wings wide. A dragon of Requiem.

Meliora gasped.

Suddenly, it seemed to
her that she saw Requiem—the Requiem of old, the Requiem that had existed
centuries before her birth, the Requiem that Ishtafel had shattered. The beast
before her did not look like a slave; he was a noble warrior, proud, strong . .
. and charging toward her brother.

Ishtafel cried out and
raised his lance and shield.

The blue dragon stormed
forth. A chain stretched from the beast's leg, dragging a seraph overseer.
Arrows rose from the dragon's back, and its blood seeped, but still it roared,
and it blasted more dragonfire.

The inferno crashed
into Ishtafel, showering around his shield, and the prince screamed.

Ignoring the pain,
Meliora stretched out both wings, even the wounded one. She rose above the
ground. With both hands, she still gripped the reins, flying behind her four
galloping horses.

The dragon slammed into
Ishtafel's chariot, lashing claws, snapping its jaws. The seraph overseer on
the chain, dragging behind the beast, flew through the air. Meliora ducked as
the overseer flew above her, only inches away; the two nearly slammed together.

Shani,
Meliora
realized.
I know this overseer.

From the corner of her
eye, she saw the blue dragon and Ishtafel's chariot of fire entangled together,
blasting out light, a battle of heat and sound and fury.

And then Meliora was
charging onward, leaving them behind.

She stormed out the
city gates.

Her firehorses pulled
her across the bridge spanning the Te'ephim River, and there—there in the
desert, upon the hill, rising from the land of Tofet, he shone. The bronze bull.
Malok.

Her triumph.

Her firehorses raced
uphill, and in the shadow of the bull, Meliora released the reins.

She slammed onto the
dirt.

She glanced up, eyelids
fluttering, and saw the sun reflecting in Malok's bronze hide, blinding her,
searing, overflowing her vision, a field of endless white.

You are safe, Elory.
Blood filled her mouth and the light filled her eyes.
You are safe.

 
 
VALE

We flew in
the darkness, in the cold wind, the dragons of darkness.

In his mind, Vale flew
with them, with the old heroes of Requiem.

We hunted in the
sky, tearing them down, burning their wings.

He could almost see
those shadows and lights around him. He was fighting in the great war, the last
war, the war of Requiem against the seraphim. With his comrades, with a million
dragons roaring flame, he slew the enemy. He fought them hard—in stormy skies,
in skies of fire, under the sun and in the shadows, in the tunnels underground.
Killing the deities. Slaying the immortals. Watching his comrades die, his
columns fall, willing to give his life in a great final stand.

We were their
greatest enemy. We fell with glory.

Vale had been born in
chains. He had never seen the great days of glory, the war of heroes.

But Ishtafel, this
shining demon before him, had fought in that war. It was Ishtafel himself who
had led the chariots into Requiem. Ishtafel whom Vale's ancestors had battled.

And now I fight with
you, my forebears. Now I fight for your honor. To join you in the halls of
afterlife, to sing forever in your mighty company. One last battle in our war.

With a roar, he blasted
forth his flames, showering the Destroyer in his chariot. His claws scratched
at the seraph's armor, and his jaws slammed against his shield. Arrows pierced
his back, and seraphim swooped from above, but still Vale roared, still he
fought.

To kill Ishtafel.

To redeem Requiem.

To die in fire.

And that fire
roared—his own fire and the fire of the chariot. It burned him. The arrows cut
him. Thousands of seraphim descended from the sky—as they had in the days of
old, falling from their cursed realm above the stars, falling upon Requiem.

Their lances cut him.

Ishtafel rose in his
chariot, charred, laughing, thrusting his own lance.

The blade cut Vale.

And he roared.

As the arrows and spears
shattered his scales, he roared for old Requiem, for his sisters, for his slain
mother, for his enslaved father, for a nation chained. For Requiem.

"For
Requiem!" he howled, wings spread wide, blood falling, fire streaming.
"Remember Requiem!"

And across the City of
Kings, they answered his call.

They wore no armor.
They bore no weapons. Their collars kept their magic at bay, but their souls
still shone with starlight. They stood on the roofs, on the roads, on
mountains, in deserts, across an empire, and they raised their hands to the
sky, and they called out with him, their voices rising as one.

"Remember Requiem!
Remember Requiem!"

The voices of slaves in
chains. The voices of a proud nation, an ancient magic.

For Requiem.

His fire roared in a pyre,
and Ishtafel's lance drove into his wing, and Vale fell.

He fell from the skies
of the Requiem that had been.

He fell through skies
of dragons.

He fell under the light
of his stars, the Draco constellation, under the gaze of the dragon's eye.
Issari's star. The lodestar of his people. Of his soul.