Requiem's Hope (Dawn of Dragons) (7 page)

Belly knotting, Tanin looked down at Issari's front foot. The amulet
of Taal was fused with the flesh, a remnant of Issari's battle with
the Demon Queen. His own body still bore the scars of his last
encounter with the demon.

So we will battle again, Angel. And this time we will tame you.

He had a thousand more questions, and he was about to ask them all,
when he saw the village below.

Or at least, what was left of the village. The settlement lay within
the dark path, as wilted and ruined as the land around it. Huts lay
smashed. Globs of demon drool covered the fields. Bones and gobbets
of flesh lay in the village square, the animal pen, and the fields,
and demon dung steamed in piles. Tanin wanted to fly away, to keep
following the path south to the sea, but when he heard the wail his
heart froze.

This was no demon voice. A human was crying out below.

He narrowed his eyes, sucked in breath, and dipped a little lower in
the sky.

He heard the voice again, weak and pleading, growing weaker by the
word. "Help. Help. Please."

After a glance at each other, the two dragons began to descend toward
the ruined village. Tanin wrinkled his snout at the stench; it
smelled like rotted meat, blood, and worms. He nearly gagged to see
human skeletons litter the place, shreds of meat still clinging to
bones. A flock of vultures were pecking at the remains, picking off
what the demons had not consumed. A few vultures fled at the sight of
the dragons; others were too busy fighting over a ribcage. The huts
lay smashed around them, containing more remains, and everywhere
spread puddles of demon drool.

"Help . . . please . . ."

The voice came from behind a few ruined huts. Tanin landed, returned
to human form, and gestured at Issari. She resumed human form too and
raised her palm, shining out the light of her amulet. They walked
between skeletons, fallen chunks of clay walls, and toppled fences,
following the cry. Tanin drew his dagger, prepared to fight any demon
that might approach. A memory of the creatures on the path returned
to him, deformed animals pleading for death.

Around a fallen brick wall—perhaps an old smithy—he saw her.

Tanin's heart wrenched and ice flooded his belly. At his side, Issari
gasped and clutched his hand.

She was young, no older than ten, a little girl lying in the dust.
Her lips trembled as she gasped for breath, her skin was ashen, and
blood stained her blue dress and dark hair. Her entrails dangled out
from her slashed belly, hanging down to the ground. She clutched the
wound as if she could still survive, still stop the trickle of life.
She met Tanin's gaze.

"They hurt me," she whispered. "I hid in the cellar.
They're gone now. Please. Help. Help me."

Issari raced toward the girl, placed a cloak upon her, and stroked
her hair, whispering softly.

She's dead already,
Tanin knew, frozen in place, frozen in
fear.
It might happen today, maybe tomorrow, but she's dead
already.

When Issari looked back at him, Tanin saw the same knowledge in her
eyes.

He thought back again to the miserable creatures on the path.
Kill
us,
they had pleaded.
Kill us.
Looking at this girl now,
Tanin heard their voices again in his mind.

She's dead already.
His knees felt weak.
I have to do it.
Painlessly. To stab her head. A quick blow. Maybe to burn her with
fire.
The girl began to tremble violently, to weep, and Tanin
winced, wanting to do it, to end her suffering. It was the moral
choice, he knew. She was dead already. Dead already.

But he could not.

He sat by the girl with Issari, and he held her hand, and he stroked
her cheek.

"Sleep, child," he whispered to her.

But she only screamed.

She screamed all that day and into the night, and with every scream
Tanin hated himself, knew he was weak, and wanted to do it, to end
her pain. But still he could not. And she wept as the dawn rose
again.

It was noon when she finally died.

She died in Issari's arms, finally at peace.

"We'll bury her outside the village," Tanin said, voice
choked. "Outside this path of disease. In a beautiful place in
the shade of trees."

He draped his cloak over the body and carried it through the village.
Issari walked at his side, her head lowered, a single tear on her
cheek. They moved between the ravaged huts, the bones, the puddles of
blood, heading past wilted trees toward the living forest that grew
beyond.

There, on the border between life and death, the creature awaited
them.

The demon lay against the trees, it legs cut off, bones thrusting out
from blue flesh. Arrows pierced its gray, warty skin, and its heart
pulsed within an open wound. The creature seemed too weak to rise; it
could only hiss at them. Blood stained its maw, and between its teeth
lay shreds of blue cotton.

Tanin looked down at the body in his arms. The girl wore a dress of
the same blue fabric.

Gently, Tanin placed the little girl's body down, straightened, and
drew his dagger. With a hoarse cry, he leaped onto the demon. The
creature bucked, snapped its teeth, lashed its claws, trying to
resist, but Tanin fought in a fury, stabbing, screaming, tearing into
its flesh, driving his blade again and again into its head. Blood
splattered him, and the creature fell dead, and still Tanin stabbed,
his body shaking.

"Tanin." Issari's soft voice rose behind him, and a hand
touched his shoulder. "Tanin, stop."

But he could not. He kept stabbing, the rage overflowing him.

"It's my fault." He trembled. "I flew south to save
Sena. I enraged your father. And now this. Now demons are slaying
innocents." He stared through tears back at the dead girl. "What
did she know of Requiem or Eteer? What did she know of dragons or
demons? This is our war. A war for a kingdom my own family founded.
And she paid with her life while I live."

Issari pulled him into her arms. "Many innocents die in war.
Many pure lives are lost when soldiers fight. Requiem was forged in
starlight, but she will be tempered in blood." Eyes dried, she
stared at the dead demon. "We will rise from horror. We will
overcome darkness. We will find our sky."

They buried the child in the forest, far from the village, in a place
of peace and beauty. Anemones grew around her grave, and elm trees
rustled in the wind, their leaves like countless dragon scales. The
sun shone down and the wind blew from the east, scented of the
distant mountains. Tanin placed dandelions upon her grave, and Issari
sang softly, songs in the tongue of Eteer. Tanin could not understand
the words, but in the music he heard a song of sky, of peace, of
memory. A song of farewell.

"Goodnight, child," Tanin whispered. "Sleep well."

They flew on into the south, two dragons, silent. The path stretched
below, and the world rolled into the horizon, scarred, a world that
could fall, a world they would forever fight for, a sky they would
forever find. They flew until the stars emerged above, and the Draco
constellation shone upon their scales.

Tanin looked up at their glow. "Illuminate our path, stars of
Requiem. We will forever fly in your light."

They descended that night into a forest clearing, shifted back into
human forms, and lay upon their fur cloaks. The stars glowed yet
Tanin found no comfort, and even when he closed his eyes and tried to
sleep, he only saw it again: the creatures begging on the path, the
girl with the slashed belly, the demon he'd stabbed again and again,
and all those older horrors of war, visions of demon armies,
attacking rocs, and everywhere the dead. A lifetime of pain and death
filled his mind like wine overflowing from a goblet.

How do you forget?
he thought.
How do you forget so much
death, so much terror, and ever find peace in the world again? Even
if Requiem rises, if we win this war, will there ever be peace for
me?

He tilted his head, looking at Issari. She lay beside him, but she
too was awake. She trembled, her eyes open and damp, staring up at
the stars and praying silently. Tanin moved closer to her, pushing
their two cloaks together, and touched her shoulder. She looked at
him and nestled close, and he held her in his arms. She laid her head
upon his chest and slung her arm across him, and he kissed her
forehead and stroked her hair.

"I can't sleep," she whispered.

He wrapped his arms around her, looked up at the stars, and felt some
of his pain ease. The world crumbled, Requiem struggled for survival,
and death sprawled north and south of the sea. But he had Issari. He
had somebody pure to protect.

"Have I told you the story of how I used to juggle?"

She shook her head. "No. Tell me."

He smiled. "I was a horrible juggler. One time, I was juggling
apples in a village when a seagull flew down, snatched one of my
apples from the air, and flew straight off."

"You lie." A soft smile touched her lips.

"I never lie! It flew straight up, then dropped the apple right
onto my head. The crowd loved it. Every time I tried to juggle those
apples, the damn bird stole them, flew up, and dropped them onto me
again. It got ugly once I started juggling torches."

She laughed softly. "You're such a liar."

"Wait until I tell you the story about my dancing routine and
the enraged pig. Every time I did a jig, the damn hog would slam
right into me, knocking me off the stage."

She closed her eyes, and he kept talking, telling her old tall
tales—of fish that tugged him into the river, fairies who taught him
to sing, and other stories of sunlight and warmth and better days. He
kept talking until she slept against him. He kissed her forehead, and
she mumbled but would not wake. Finally he slept too, a fitful sleep,
a brittle and fearful sleep, but whenever nightmares woke him she was
in his arms, and he held her closer, and they warmed each other until
the dawn.

 
 
LAIRA

She
flew upon Neiva, her dear roc, leading the Goldtusk clan across the
sky.

For seventeen years, Laira had lived as the lowliest member of this
tribe—beaten, starved, worth less than the dogs. Now she was
Chieftain of Goldtusk, Daughter of Ka'altei, leader of a great flock.
She no longer wore her old, tattered garment of rat furs, the one
Zerra had pissed on and left to stink. Today she wore a resplendent
tiger pelt and a golden headdress. Her jaw was still crooked, her
body still small, but her hair was growing longer, her limbs
stronger, and her spirit soared like the rocs she led. Seventy of the
oily vultures flew around her, yellow eyes gleaming, their feathers
dank and dripping. The tribe elders, women, and children had always
walked upon the earth, too lowly to ride upon the hunters' rocs, but
now they rode too, five or six souls upon each bird. Three of the
rocs held their totem pole, flying together, and upon the pillar's
crest gleamed the gilded ivory tusk the tribe worshiped.

Looking upon her tribe, Laira heaved a deep sigh.

I suffered, bled, and killed for Goldtusk. And now I must give
this tribe away.
She tightened her lips.
For Requiem.

She looked to her left. Not a mark away flew the dragons of Requiem,
twenty in all. Maev, Dorvin, and Alina had flown west to seek others.
Tanin and Issari flew south across the sea. Here was all that
remained, barely a tribe, barely a clan, a humble twenty dragons who
would forge a nation.

I wish you were here with us, Sena,
Laira thought, the pain
still fresh inside her, a raw wound in her breast she did not think
would ever heal.
You could have flown with us now.
She lowered
her head.
I let you down. We all did. You were strong in your own
way, not ours. We failed to see it. I failed. I'm sorry.

She took a shaky breath and whispered prayers for his soul—a prayer
to Ka'altei of the Goldtusk tribe, to Taal the Father God of Eteer,
and to the stars of Requiem. She did not know if any of these deities
heard her prayers. She did not know if they'd bless her brother who
had sinned, who had taken his own life. But it seemed to Laira that
as she prayed, she saw those stars above, just a brief glimmer, even
in the daylight, and that soothed her. Perhaps Sena was up there now,
looking down upon her.

A grunt sounded to her left. She turned to see Jeid leave the other
dragons and fly toward the rocs. Largest among the dragons, he flew
with a clatter of scales, and smoke streamed from his nostrils and
mouth. With his wide wings and bulky frame, he was as large as Neiva,
Laira's roc. He glided at her side, the wind fluttering his wings
with little thuds.

"How sure are you this will work?" he said, staring at her
with one eye. "How well do you know this Chieftain Oritan?"

Riding upon her roc, Laira had to cry out to be heard over the wind.
"Better than I knew you when I flew to you for aid!" She
gave him a wink and a mirthless smile. "Oritan has been craving
an alliance with Goldtusk for years. He practically shoved his
daughter at Zerra, demanding a marriage, a joining of the clans.
Zerra always refused, but now this is my tribe." She inhaled
deeply. "We will forge an alliance. We will fight my father
together."

Jeid grumbled something under his breath, and Laira saw the doubt in
his eyes.

But I haven't told you all, Jeid,
she thought, eyes stinging.
For if you knew, you would try to stop me. But I will do this
deed. For Requiem. For our column of marble and our stars above. And
for you, Jeid.
Her eyes stung.
For the man I love more than
life.

They had been flying for three days now, barely stopping even for
sleep, crossing plains of grass, misty forests, and hills that rolled
for many marks. They fed upon herds of deer, flocks of geese, and
fish that filled the rivers that snaked below. And always the hint of
stench wafted on the breeze, and once a distant shriek—perhaps just
the wind—sounded in the distance. Sometimes Laira heard or smelled
nothing, but she always felt the presence of pursuit. It was a chill
along her spine, an iciness in her belly, a prickling on her nape.
Whenever she shut her eyes, she saw it again—the demonic octopus
constricting her, speaking her name, and its spawn devouring the body
of her brother.