Requiem's Song (Book 1) (2 page)

"I
can fly!" Laira shouted and laughed. "I can fly to the
escarpment. I can find the others. I know they're real. I—"

"Laira,
come back here!" Mother shouted, flying toward her.

The
white dragon reached out her claws, grabbed Laira's leg, and tugged.
Laira screamed and tried to free herself, and her wings beat, and—

Shrieks
pierced the air.

Laira
fell silent.

Mother
spun around in the sky, stared east, and cried out in fear.

"Rocs,"
Laira whispered.

The
great birds, larger even than dragons, covered the sky, fetid things
like oversized vultures. Their heads were bald, their necks gangly,
their black feathers damp with the oil they secreted. Their talons
reached out, and upon their backs rode the hunters of the Goldtusk
tribe.

At
their lead, riding upon a massive roc that dwarfed the others, rode
Zerra.

"The
curse of the reptile rises!" cried the chieftain, his hair
billowing. He raised a flint-tipped spear in his hand; feathers and
scrimshawed raven skulls adorned its shaft. "Behold the
weredragon."

Mother
hovered and snarled, hiding Laira behind her. She faced the advancing
horde. Dozens of rocs flew toward them.

"Fly
down into the forest," Mother said softly, still facing the foul
birds; it took Laira a few heartbeats to realize Mother was talking
to her. "They haven't seen you yet. Land among the trees, become
human again, and return to the camp."

"We
have to flee!" Laira said.

"They're
too fast," Mother replied. "They will catch us if we flee.
Into the forest, go! I'll hold them off."

The
rocs shrieked, drawing nearer. Their stench filled the air, thick as
fog, and their cries split the sky, slamming against Laira's
eardrums.

Laira
shook, hesitating, wanting to fight too, wanting to drag Mother to
safety, wanting to fly north and find the other dragons fabled to
exist . . . but she simply obeyed.

She
flew down past the leafy canopy. Before she hit the ground, she heard
screams above. Fire blazed overhead and blood rained. Laira landed by
the pool, shifted back into human form, and gazed up at the sky.

She
trembled. She wanted to cry out but dared not. Past the branches, she
caught only glimpses of the violence. She saw Mother blowing fire, a
blaze greater than any pyre, tinged blue and white with horrible
heat. She saw Zerra ignite, scream, and burn upon his roc. And then
only smoke, talons cutting into scales, and pattering blood on fallen
leaves.

A
human again—ten years old, scrawny as a twig, and clad only in her
buffalo pelt—Laira ran.

She
ran through the forest, across the meadow, and into their camp. She
ran until Shedah—wizened, cackling, covered in moles—grabbed her.
She screamed in the crone's grasp as the hunters returned with their
catch. Mother was now in human form, beaten and bloodied, tied with
ropes. She was trying to shift into a dragon again; scales appeared
and disappeared upon her body, but whenever she began to grow, the
ropes dug into her flesh, shoving her back into human form. Men
tossed Mother onto the ground, kicking, striking with sticks, and
Laira wanted to run to her, she wanted to shift into a dragon and
save her, but she only raced into her tent, and she only trembled.

For
five days she cowered as Shedah guarded the tent, sealing Laira in
the shadows.

And
now she stood here, staring, all her tears spent, watching her mother
upon the pyre, watching Zerra lift a torch and bring it toward the
pile of wood and kindling.

"Please,"
Laira whispered, and finally her eyes dampened. "Please, Zerra,
please don't kill her. Please."

The
chieftain slowly turned toward her. He stared, the ruined half of his
face dripping pus and blood. Slowly a smile spread across his face,
displaying crooked teeth.

"One
day, little worm . . ." he said, voice like wooden chips rubbing
together. "One day I will find the curse in you too, and you
will scream like this."

With
that, Zerra spun back toward the pyre and tossed his torch into the
kindling.

Oil
soaked the straw, twigs, and dried leaves. They burst into flame with
the speed and ferocity of dragonfire.

Mother
screamed.

The
fire spread across her, blazing skyward, licking skin off muscle,
flesh off bones. And still Mother screamed, writhing in her bonds,
begging, wailing.

And
Laira screamed too.

She
tried to close her eyes, but Shedah grabbed her eyelids with rough
fingers and held them open. She tried to break free, to run to her
mother, to flee into the forest, but the crone held her fast.

"Mother!"
she cried. "Mother, please!"

Please,
she prayed silently.
Please
die. Please stop screaming.

Yet
she would not. The screaming and writhing continued within the
inferno, the fire eating Mother's flesh as if slowly savoring a meal.
The smell of cooking meat filled the camp, as savory as spiced game.
The flames tore through the ropes, and Mother fell from the stake to
land in the blazing kindling. She managed to roll off the pyre, to
run several steps through the camp, a living torch. She soon
collapsed, rolling and whimpering. Zerra stood above the charred
mockery of life and laughed.

"Yes,
reptile." The chieftain smiled thinly and the firelight blazed
against his own wound. "You burned me. Now you will forever burn
in the depths of the Abyss."

When
finally Mother was silent and still, Shedah spat a green glob,
huffed, and released Laira.

She
stood for a moment, staring at the corpse of her mother. It still
burned, crumbling away into charred ashes. Laira wanted to embrace
the corpse. She wanted to save her, to beg the shaman to heal her.
But she knew: Mother was dead.

Men
tossed rugs over the corpse, stamped out the flame, and bound the
remains with ropes. They hung the charred, blackened thing from the
tribe totem, a sacrifice to Ka'altei. Mother swung in the wind,
banging against the carved pole, shedding ash. She barely looked
human, just burnt meat upon bones. The rocs beneath the totem rose,
reached up their talons, and snapped their beaks, but they dared not
yet eat. The great vultures looked back at Zerra, their master,
begging.

"Eat,
my friends." Zerra nodded. "Eat, hunters of the sky. She is
nice and crunchy."

With
shrieks and flying feathers, the birds leaped up, grabbed the hanging
corpse, and tore it apart. The beasts tossed back their beaks,
guzzling down legs, arms, the head, then fought one another for the
torso and its dangling, smoking entrails.

Laira
turned and fled.

She
ran between the tents, tears in her eyes.

She
wanted to keep running—to flee the camp, to head across the open
fields, to enter the forest and never emerge. Other weredragons lived
in the world; she knew that they must. But Mother's words returned to
her.

There
are no others. The world is cold and large and empty. The lone wolf
perishes. The pack survives.

She
ran back into her tent, raced toward her pile of fur blankets, and
grabbed her doll. She clutched the wooden girl to her chest, and her
tears flowed.

"We
must never shift again," she whispered, rocking the toy. "I
promise you, Mustardseed. I promise. We'll never become dragons
again."

She
shivered, the fire still burning in her eyes, the screams still
echoing in her ears. She would remain. She would keep her disease
secret. And she would grow strong.

"We'll
become hunters, Mustardseed." She knuckled tears away from her
eyes. "We'll grow big and strong and become hunters like Zerra,
and he'll never be able to hurt us. Ever. I promise."

Outside
rose the laughter of men, and the smell of burnt meat wafted into the
tent. Laira lay down, held her doll close, and shivered.

 
 
RAEM

Prince
Raem stood above the prisoner, khopesh raised, prepared to swing down
the sickle-shaped sword.

"Look
at me," Raem said softly. "Look me in the eyes."

Bound
and bruised, her neck upon the block, the prisoner shivered. When she
raised her eyes, they shone with tears.

"Please,"
the woman whispered. "Please, my lord, I beg you."

"Do
not look away from my eyes." Raem's voice was still soft.

He
always insisted his victims looked him in the eyes as his blade
descended. Many called him a noble ruler for it. They said that
Prince Raem, Son of Nir-Ur, held life so sacred he used no
executioner but only condemned those truly worthy of death—those he
could look in the eyes as he swung the sword himself, their guilt
clear beyond doubt.

Raem
had always found those claims amusing. Truth was he simply enjoyed
the work, and when they stared into his eyes during the act, it felt
more intimate—the ultimate connection of souls. It was better than
bedding a woman, better than creating life.

Taking
life,
he thought,
is
the most intimate connection you can make with another living soul.

"Please."
The woman trembled. "I will never shift again, I promise. I am
cured. I can no longer become a dragon. I—"

Raem
swung down his khopesh.

The
curved, bronze blade drove through her neck with a single blow and
thumped against the wooden block.

Raem
nodded.

"Good!"
He took a cloth from a nearby bench and wiped the blood off his
blade. "Single blow again."

Around
him in the courtyard, the spectators—nobles, priests, and
slaves—applauded politely. A wrinkly old scribe, clad in but a
loincloth, scratched the departed's name onto a clay tablet.

Raem
was pleased. The last execution had not gone as well. The man's neck
had been too thick, and Raem had slammed his sword down five times
before cleaving it; the man had lived through the first three blows.
Every moon now, Raem found more of the diseased creatures infesting
the city—men and women with reptilian blood, able to become great,
winged beasts. Every moon now, blood coated his khopesh.
"The
reptiles infest our city!" he told the crowd of onlookers. They
stood upon the cobblestones, shaded by fig and palm trees. "Taal,
Father of All Gods, teaches that the human body is sacred and pure.
Followers of Taal do not pierce or tattoo their skin. We do not go
fat or frail. We preserve the body." Raem sneered. "The
curse of weredragons is the greatest abomination unto our lord. To
shift into a dragon—grow scales, horns, and claws, deforming the
human form—is heretical."

The
people nodded in approval, their necklaces of faience beads chinking.
A merchant in purple robes, his beard curled into many ringlets, even
raised his fist and cried out in his passion; the man had turned in
his own wife, a filthy weredragon, only last year.

"A
plague has descended upon our kingdom," Raem said, standing
above the decapitated body. "Hundreds in our city are sick with
the dragon disease, able to morph at will. Hundreds more hide their
curse. But I, Raem son of Nir-Ur, Heir to the Seran Dynasty, Prince
of Eteer, will find them. And I will purify our kingdom."

They
cheered. They cried out Taal's name. They raised bone, stone, and tin
figurines of the god—a slender man with a lowered head and
forward-facing palms. Staring at the crowd, Raem wondered how many
more of his followers—from nobles to slaves—hid the diseased in
their homes.

Raem
clenched his fist to remember that night years ago, the night he had
learned that his own wife and daughter were ill. He had caught them
shifting into dragons deep in the city cisterns, hiding their shame
in darkness.

I
will find you someday, Anai, my dear wife,
he thought, trembling with rage.
I
will bring you back to me, my daughter, my precious Laira. And you
will suffer.

Raem
slid his khopesh though his belt. He walked away from the decapitated
corpse, leaving his servants to clean up the mess. His sandals
whispered against the cobblestones, and he inhaled deeply, savoring
the smell of blood mingling with the aroma of fig trees, palms, and
grapevines. As he moved through the courtyard, men and women bowed
before him: nobles in garments of silk, silver disks, and gemstones,
their feet clad in sandals; priests in flowing black robes hemmed in
gold, their beards long and curled; and eunuch slaves in loincloths,
metal collars around their necks. Only his soldiers did not bow; they
stood between the columns that surrounded the courtyard, holding
round shields and curved blades, and bronze helmets hid their faces.

Bronze,
Raem thought, admiring the gleam of sunlight upon the metal. The
humble, seaside tribe of Eteer had discovered the precious metal only
a hundred years ago. Within a generation, their primitive tools—made
of flint and wood—had vanished. Now Eteer was a great city-state,
its sphere of power spreading across farmlands, the coast, and deep
into the sea—the greatest civilization in the world, a light in the
darkness, law in chaos, might rising in a weak world.

And
soon I will rule this kingdom.

He
stepped between two columns, leaving the courtyard, and craned back
his neck. He stared up at his home.

The Palace of Eteer rose several
stories tall. Blue bricks formed the bottom tier's walls, inlaid with
golden reliefs of winged bulls, rearing lions, and proud soldiers in
chariots. Columns lined the upper floors, carved of indigo stone,
their capitals gilded. Balconies thrust out, holding lush gardens of
palm trees, blooming flowers, and vines that cascaded like green
waterfalls. Upon the palace roof grew a forest lush with trees and
birds. This palace was the greatest building in the world, a monument
of life and power.