Requiem's Hope (Dawn of Dragons) (22 page)

The enemy was close now, not a mark away. Jeid growled and rose in
the air, his twenty dragons behind him. He could see the demons
clearly now—some scaled, some feathered, some naked and dripping,
others dry and lanky, some covered in hooks, others in fur, some
limbless, some wingless, all creatures worse than any imagined in
nightmares. Upon the beasts, leading the assault, rode a man—the
only mortal of the host. He wore armor, and he bore a khopesh, the
curved blade of the south. He stared across the darkness at Jeid, and
their eyes met.

King Raem of Eteer,
Jeid knew.
The Lord of Demons. Laira's
father.

Laira seemed to see the tyrant too. She soared upon her roc to Jeid's
right, the western flank of their host. Her seventy rocs rose around
her, their riders nocking arrows and howling their battle cries.
"Goldtusk, Goldtusk!" The rancid vultures added their
shrieks to the din, and their talons stretched out, ready to dig into
demons.

"Leatherwing!"

To Jeid's left rose the tribe of ptero-riders, their chests painted
white and red, their spears bedecked with feathers and beads. Oritan
rose before them upon his mount, chanting for his tribe.

The demons chanted too, their voices mocking.

"Tear off their scales one by one!" one creature cried, a
shaggy thing with a warty red head.

"Slay the birds and break the reptiles!" roared another
creature, a naked strip of meat beating hooked wings.

Jeers rose among the host.

"We will feast upon dragon bones!"

"We will wear skins of scales!"

"We will drink blood from dragon horns!"

Above them all rose the voice of King Raem, mocking and cruel. "Bring
me the weredragons alive. They will beg for death in the courts of
the Abyss."

With a thousand cries, the dragons swarmed toward the mountain.

Jeid roared and blew his fire. Around him, his dragons answered his
cry.

"Requiem! Requiem!"

The pteros flew from the west, their riders firing spears. The rocs
flew from the east, their riders firing arrows. Jeid charged forth,
leading the dragons of Requiem, crashing into the host of the Abyss.

 
 
LAIRA

My
father.

Riding her roc, Laira stared at the host, and her eyes met his. Her
heart seemed to freeze within her.

Raem Seran. The man who exiled me. Who hunts me. Who unleashed the
terrors of the underground. The man I feared for so long, the man who
will kill me if he can.

"Father," she whispered.

He seemed to smile at her from upon his mount—a twisted demon of
pink skin, wings stretched tight over bone, and a bloated, vaguely
human head. He raised his sword in salute. She doubted he recognized
her; she flew as a Goldtusk huntress, not a dragon of Requiem, for in
this battle she would lead her tribe proudly. But she knew him. And
tonight she knew that to end this war, to let Requiem rise, she would
have to kill the man who had given her life.

"Fly to him, Neiva," she said softly, pointing at the man
in bronze. She nocked an arrow in her bow. "Fly to him and we
will end this."

The roc beat her wings and stormed forward. Around Laira, the other
rocs flew too, their riders firing arrows. The demons ahead cackled
and stormed forward to meet the Goldtusk tribe.

The hosts slammed together with flashing blades, claws, and raining
blood.

Laira tried to reach her father, to cut him down. But the king pulled
back, allowing his demons to storm forth. Three creatures flew at
Laira, each as large as a dragon and covered in thick brown fur. Red
faces grew from them like boils, swollen and sprouting black beards.
Their teeth were yellow, their smiles cruel. Their claws reached out,
and Laira shouted and fired an arrow. The projectile slammed into one
demon before it crashed into her roc, teeth snapping.

Laira screamed, drew her sword, and lashed at the wounded creature.
The blade tangled in its thick fur. Its saliva dripped upon her, and
Laira grimaced. Her roc dipped in the sky, then reared, talons
scratching at the demon's face. Its blood spilled and it shrieked and
fell back. Countless other creatures flew all around, moving closer.
Laira fired another arrow, and Neiva lashed her talons, and around
her dozens of other rocs battled in the sky.

This was Goldtusk's greatest battle. This was the battle that would
let Requiem rise or fade from history. This was a battle for more
than tribes or dragons—it was a battle for the fate of the world
itself, a battle for a world of life and light or demonic darkness.

And that battle raged around her with light, with blood, with arrows
and dragonfire. Beyond the tribe, the others fought too—dragons and
pteros battling at their own fronts, killing, dying, burning the sky.
Flames lit the night. Blood rained and rocs fell around her. Coiling
worms the size of whales crashed into rocs, wrapped around them,
crushed their bones. Demonic jaws snapped open and closed, tearing
tribesmen apart, ripping torsos in two, and gore rained upon the
mountainside. Everywhere around Laira the tribesmen fell, and rocs
crashed down, and her tribe—and this night Goldtusk was her home,
and these were her people as much as dragons—fell and died.

Tonight all memory of Goldtusk might fade,
Laira thought,
firing her arrows, screaming from atop her roc.
But if tonight we
die, then we die with demons.

"Neiva, fly!" she shouted. "Fight them!"

Her roc was wounded. Gashes thick with bubbling demon saliva covered
Neiva. Blood poured from her wings. One of her talons had cracked and
dangled loosely. Yet still the great vulture fought, biting,
scratching. And demons fell. And demons died.

They can be hurt.
She snarled and fired another arrow.
We
can kill them. We will kill hundreds of them.

Her arrow slammed into a coiling serpent, and her roc tore apart a
flying blob of slime.

"To the king!" Laira shouted, pointing at Raem across the
field. "To Raem! Rocs, rally here. To me!"

The surviving rocs mustered around her, bloodied and weary but still
shrieking. The tribesmen chanted atop them. "For Laira!
Chieftain Laira!" Their cries rolled across the sky. "For
Laira Seran, Chieftain of Goldtusk!"

The surviving rocs—by the stars, barely fifty still lived—stormed
forth, crashing into the swarm of demons that hid the world. And
there, rising above their rot, she saw him again, the man of bronze.
Her father. He met her gaze across the sky, and she saw him gasp, and
slowly a grin spread across his face. She could not hear his voice
from here, but she could read his lips.

"Laira." His grin widened and he flew toward her, and now
his voice carried on the wind. "Laira, my daughter!"

She screamed. She pointed toward him. "Goldtusk, to the bronze
king! Slay the king!"

Their arrows fired. Laira dug her heels into Neiva, and her fellow
rocs swarmed around her, charging toward Raem.

Hundreds of demons slammed into the tribe.

Jaws tore wings off rocs. Claws lacerated men, tearing through armor.
Great tapeworms swallowed tribesmen whole. Flaming demons of scales
and lava landed upon the tribe, burning them, feasting on roasted
flesh.

"Fly to the metal man!" Laira shouted. "Slay the
king!" She fired her last arrow. "Fly to him, Neiva!"

The roc shrieked and flew, but Laira knew the animal was too hurt,
too weak. Her blood dripped, and half the feathers had been torn off
her left wing. She wobbled as she flew. But Raem was so close now.
Laira could see him just a few demons away.

"Rocs, with me!" she cried. But the others too were hurt,
surrounded by too many enemies, and more fell every breath.

So I will fight you alone, Father. You exiled me. You drove me to
a world of hunger, cold, fear. And now you will taste my blade.
She raised her bronze sword high, the same blade that had slain
Zerra.
Now this blade will sever your head too.

He raised his own sword, awaiting her across the battle upon his
twisted bat, and his lips peeled back in a horrible smile—a demon's
smile.

A cloud of buzzing flies, each the size of a horse, bustled toward
Laira. Their faces were humanlike, bloated like waterlogged corpses,
gray and leaking. With screeches, they flew onto Neiva like true
flies onto old meat.

The roc screamed.

The flies thrust out long, metallic tongues, piercing Neiva's flesh.
Blood spurted.

"Neiva!"

Laira swung her sword, trying to reach the unholy insects, but her
arm was too short.

"Neiva, fly!"

The roc rose in the sky. The vulture tossed back her head, let out a
pained cry, and tried to flap her wings. Two of the demonic flies
landed upon one of those wings, bit deep, tugged hard, and ripped the
wing off.

The roc tumbled from the sky, flies digging into her chest.

Laira fell with the roc, hair billowing, head spinning. The ground
raced up toward them. They slammed into another roc, flipped over,
and fell again. The world spun all around Laira—clouds of demons,
dragons blowing fire, distant pteros upon the wind, and above them
all the stars—the stars of Requiem, the stars going dark behind the
smoke and flame of battle.

"Neiva, fly!"

But the roc was already dead, her chest cut open, her wings gone.
Laira struggled to free herself from the saddle, but a strap pinned
her down. She cried out. They slammed against a demon, spun madly,
and kept falling.

An instant before hitting the ground, Laira managed to swing her
sword, cutting the strap.

She tore free from the saddle.

She shifted into a dragon.

She soared, a golden beast, blowing fire, roaring her cry.

"For Requiem!"

She fought as a dragon now; Requiem would be her battle cry, her
beacon of hope in the darkness. She flew alone; she saw no other
rocs. Some other dragons still fought, but they were too distant, and
many demons separated her from the Leatherwing tribe. She would face
him alone.

A golden dragon, she blew her flame, crashed through demons, and flew
toward her father.

 
 
ISSARI

They
traveled through the desert, thousands of Eteerians, weary and
wounded and far from home.

Their city lay in darkness, its halls and homes overrun with the
demon spawn. The underworld had risen; a kingdom had fallen. And so
here they walked across the dry, stony earth, the sun scorching their
skin. They had taken no supplies, had fled their city with only the
clothes on their backs. Some walked barefoot, the hot earth baking
their soles. Some walked shirtless, the sun turning their skin red.
All were parched, their lips dry, their throats tight, their bellies
twisting with fear. A thousand men, women, and children. Exiled.
Wandering into the deep, southern heat. Demons covered the world, and
nightmares haunted their sleep, and only one thing gave the survivors
of Eteer hope in the wild. Only one light still guided their way.

The Priestess in White.

She walked at their lead, solemn, her back always straight, her head
always high. Her white tunic fluttered in the wind, a simple garment.
No golden tassels or embroidery marked her raiment as they had during
her days as a princess. No headdress of gold or jewels bedecked her
head of raven hair. To a chance observer, she might have, at first
glance, seemed like a simple commoner, perhaps the daughter of a
milkmaid or a potter. Yet something in her eyes—determined, hard
eyes that never flinched from the shimmering horizon—denoted her
nobility, her holiness.

She was Issari Seran, daughter of the Demon King. She was a Priestess
of Taal, the silver amulet of her god embedded into her palm. She was
a daughter of Requiem, blessed with the starlit magic of dragons. She
was a leader of outcasts. She was a bringer of hope. She was the
shepherdess of a lost flock.

"Bless you, Priestess," said all those who approached her,
seeking a blessing, seeking to touch her dusty garment. "Blessed
be Issari, True Queen of Eteer, True Daughter of Taal."

She nodded to all those who approached, whispered prayers, and
touched them with her silver palm.

"The Light of Taal!" one old man whispered, tears in his
eyes.

"Blessed be Queen Issari!" said a young mother, holding her
babe. "True Lady of Eteer."

One boy, a scrawny thing clad in rags, approached her on bare feet.
He touched her gown—a sign of respect in Eteer—and whispered in
awe, "Issari, Daughter of Requiem." The boy's eyes shone.
"The White Dragon."

Issari had spent the past few days staring ahead as she walked,
rarely removing her eyes from the hazy horizon that shimmered in the
heat waves. Now her heart skipped a beat, and she took a closer look
at the boy. All others had spoken of Eteer and its gods; this child
was the first to mention Requiem, her second home, her land across
the sea. The boy was too thin; his ribs showed through tatters in his
tunic. His skin was tanned bronze, and dust filled his black hair. He
looked like a typical street urchin, one of the many who had once
lived in Eteer, aside from his curious left arm. That arm was no
larger than a babe's, ending with a hand the size of a walnut.

"You know of Requiem?" she asked him.

The child grinned. Despite being half-naked and half-starved, his
teeth were remarkably white and straight. "I was a beggar on the
canal. I know more than the wisest scholar." He raised his chin
proudly. "I watched as you smuggled Vir Requis onto ships,
letting them sail north to safety. I watched as you wandered through
the city, fighting the demons with your silver hand, hiding
weredragons in cellars and attics. They've all left north or died. I
was the last." He gave a little bow. "I am Fin, the last
Vir Requis of Eteer."