Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (4 page)

"Mother,"
Elory whispered, tears flowing. "Mother, turn back . . . please . .
."

But it was too late.

Laughing, Ishtafel
spread his wings and took flight. The seraph soared, carrying Elory across his
shoulder. They rose higher. From up here, Elory could see for miles—the tar
pit, the field of bricklayers, the refineries, the limestone quarries, the city
of huts, the endless agony of a nation forgotten.

And a single silver
dragon, gazing at Elory with damp eyes.

"Remember
Requiem," Mother whispered. "Remember that I love you. Always."

Gripping Elory with one
hand, Ishtafel hefted his lance in the other.

He threw the weapon.

A shard of light, the
lance streamed through the air, fast as lightning, slower than generations of
slavery. It cut through a lost sky. It drove into the silver dragon with a
blast of light and red mist. It tore into Nala's throat, emerged from the other
side, and the dragon lost her magic.

Nala fell as a woman. A
chained slave. Haggard. Torn with many blades.

"Mother,"
Elory whispered, shaking in the grip of the seraph.

The seraphim swooped.
Their lances thrust. They ripped into the falling woman, tearing her apart,
severing her limbs, gutting her innards. Nala thudded onto the ground in pieces
and shattered . . . shattered like Requiem, like Elory's heart, like all her
hope, all her prayers.

She closed her eyes.
She wept.

I'm sorry. I'm so
sorry, Mother.

She wanted to scream,
to rage, to curse the stars that had abandoned her, to curse Ishtafel the Cruel.
Yet her strength was gone.

The seraph's lips
touched her ear.

"Remember what you
saw here, precious doll." His breath brushed her head. "Remember what
happens to those who defy me."

He carried her away
from the camp. He took her into his chariot of fire. He cracked his whip, and
his firehorses bucked and soared, carrying the chariot across the sky.

Elory sat in the
chariot, chains around her ankles, the seraph's arms around her frail frame.
They left the land of Tofet behind—left a place of screams, of endless blood
and tar, of a memory that Elory knew would forever haunt her. Ahead, across the
barren distance, rose the city of limestone, steel, and gold, a place of
splendor, of might, of a new home.

 
 
VALE

Vale was chipping rocks in
the quarry, cutting bricks for his masters' temple, when the chariot of fire
flew above him with heat and light, and his world went dark.

He had been working since
before dawn. The chains chafed his ankles, the sun beat down on his shaved
head, and the whips had torn into his back. Blisters bloomed across his hands,
but he kept working, chipping limestone with his chisel. The walls of the
quarry soared around him, taller than temples.

Ishtafel, Prince of
Saraph, had returned from war, and the empire celebrated. In Shayeen across the
river, the city of the seraphim, feasts and dances were held all day and night.
Parades would be marching down the limestone streets. Dancers and singers would
be performing for the masses. And across the city, great monuments were rising
for Ishtafel's glory: statues of the hero, obelisks tipped with precious metals,
and a great temple to the Eight Gods bearing the prince's name.

And so Vale toiled.

And so thousands of his
kinsmen, the men and women of fallen Requiem, swung their pickaxes, carving out
bricks that would rise for their lord's glory. And so Requiem, a once-proud
nation, cried out in pain, whipped, worked nearly to death, praying to stars
that no longer shone at night.

Vale wiped the sweat
off his brow. He was a young man, only twenty-one, but he felt old, weary,
haggard. His arms seemed so thin to him, and his head swayed. The sun kept
beating down. He wanted water—only a few drops to soothe his parched
throat—but dared not ask. The last slave to have begged for water now hung
upon the quarry wall, hands and legs nailed into the limestone, the crows
pecking at his living flesh.

Maybe he's the lucky
one.
Pausing for breath, Vale flicked up his eyes. He saw them there. They
stood upon the quarry's rim above. Twenty seraphim masters. As thin, dirty, and
wretched as Vale and his comrades were, the seraphim were noble. The sunlight
shone on their gilded armor and swan wings, and their golden eyes stared down
into the pit, all-seeing.

"Work, worm!"
one master shouted, raising his firewhip.

Vale returned to
chipping the stone. Rage burned in his throat like the thirst. The collar
itched around his neck, worse than the weariness, the thirst, the pain. More
than anything, Vale wished he could take the pickaxe to that collar, break it
off, summon his magic. With every swing of that pickaxe, Vale imagined that he
was beating leathern wings. With every chip of stone that flew, he imagined
claws lashing. As the sunbeams beat him, he imagined streams of dragonfire.

All around him, the
thousands of slaves labored. Some fell with exhaustion, even the whips of their
masters unable to rouse them. Others prayed under their breath—prayed to the
Eight Gods of Saraph when the masters drew near, prayed to the old stars of
Requiem when no seraphim could hear.

"Requiem,"
Vale whispered, swinging his pickaxe, the sun and dust and sweat in his eyes.

He tried to imagine it.
His ancestors, millions of Vir Requis, no seraph masters to whip them, no
collars around their necks. Thousands of men and women who could summon the
ancient magic of starlight, grow wings and scales, breathe fire, and take
flight as dragons.

We need to rise
again.
Vale clenched his jaw, banging against the limestone walls with all
his rage.
We need to shatter our collars. To rise as dragons. To blow our
fire, fight again, to—

"Stop hacking like
a butcher at a hog!" shouted an overseer. The seraph swooped, landed
behind Vale, and lashed his whip. "These bricks are for Ishtafel's temple,
not one of your wretched maggot huts."

Vale screamed as the
whip hit his back, ripping the flesh, cauterizing the wound with a sizzle.

With a grunt, the
seraph moved to swing his whip at another slave, a mere boy of ten years who
had accidentally cracked a brick in two. The whip swung again and again, the
boy screamed, and Vale's hands shook around the shaft of his pickaxe. So many
nights he had tried to swing that pickaxe against his own neck, to shatter the
collar, but couldn't break the ancient curse that held it together, that buried
his magic—the magic of dragons. So many nights he had prayed for the courage to
swing that pickaxe just an inch higher, to drive the blade into his neck, to
end the pain.

And so many nights he
had seen those who had fled this nightmare. Those who had summoned the courage
to do what Vale could not—to end their lives.

Vale ground his teeth,
slamming the limestone again and again, carving out the bricks, the stones that
would raise great monuments for the seraph who had crushed Vale's kingdom.

I live so that one
day I can drive this pickaxe into your throat, Ishtafel.
He snarled as he
worked.
I live to see that day when we rise in rebellion. When we do what
our ancestors could not.
He drove the axe so deep into the stone the shaft
cracked.
For the day we burn you all.

Just as he was
imagining dragonfire raining down on the masters, fire crackled above. Vale
raised his head and saw him there.

A growl rose in his
throat, and his knuckles whitened around his pickaxe's grip.

"Ishtafel,"
he hissed.

The chariot of fire
streamed above the quarry. Its royal banner unfurled in the wind, displaying
the Thirteenth Dynasty's sigil—an eye within a sunburst, the Eye of Saraph.
Steeds woven of living flame pulled the vessel across the sky, heading away
from Tofet, the land of slaves, toward Shayeen, the distant city of seraphim.
Even from here below, Vale could see the tyrant's torso and head rise from the
chariot—the gilded pauldrons and breastplate, the golden hair that streamed
like another banner.

There he was, so close!
The immortal creature who had destroyed the realm of Vale's ancestors, who had
brought Vale's people here, who doomed him to a life in the mine, breaking the
very stones that built temples in Ishtafel's name.

Vale tugged at his
collar, wishing—as he had since childhood—that he could rip it off, summon
his magic, soar, blow his fire, avenge his people.

But, like all others
across the quarry, he only knelt. Thousands of quarrymen, scores of seraphim
overseers—all bent the knee as the chariot of fire flew overhead.

But as the others all
lowered their gaze, Vale stared up at the flames, eyes narrowed, stinging with
sweat, with hatred. His pickaxe trembled in his hands—the axe he would someday
drive into that tyrant's golden, beautiful flesh.

"Praise
Ishtafel!" cried an overseer. "Praise the Prince of Saraph, the Slayer
of Giants, the Destroyer of Requiem!"

Curse you,
Vale
thought.
Curse you, foul murderer, and curse your family, and curse your
empire, and curse—

"Brother!"

The cry rose from far
above, torn in pain.

Vale looked back up at
the chariot and his world seemed to crash around him. Were the walls of the
quarry to tumble, the sky to fall, the ground to open up to swallow him, Vale
could not have felt more shock.

Above in the flaming
chariot, held in the tyrant's grip, was his sister.

"Elory," Vale
whispered.

"Brothe—"
she began, leaning over the edge of the fire, eyes wide, and for a horrible
instant, Vale was sure she was going to jump, to leap from the flames and crash
down dead into the quarry. Then Ishtafel grabbed her. The seraph pulled her
back into the flaming vessel.

The chariot flew
onward, vanishing from view over the quarry's rim, heading toward the city of
seraphim.

"Go on, back to
work, scum," an overseer said, cracking his whip. "Stop kneeling like
worms, and get to cutting stones for your lord's temple."

Across the quarry, the
slaves rose and resumed their work.

Vale rose too, but he
couldn't bring himself to swing the pickaxe. His head spun. His breath rattled
in his lungs. His knees felt weak.

Ishtafel, the
conqueror, the son of Queen Kalafi herself, the creature who had killed so many
Vir Requis . . . has my sister.

Vale could barely
breathe.

He had heard tales of
Ishtafel's bedchamber. Any man with a sister or daughter had. They said that
Ishtafel's chambers made the quarry, the refineries, and the bitumen pit seem
leisurely. They said that Ishtafel took pleasure from his slave's bodies, a
pleasure so barbaric he snapped their bones, tore up their insides, later
discarding the corpses and fetching fresh meat from Tofet.

And now he has
Elory.
Vale let out a strangled gasp. The quarry swayed around him.
Now
he has my baby sister.
Vale had already lost one sister to the seraphim—a
sister they rarely spoke of, only in whispers, in darkness. Losing Elory too
was a pain too great to bear.

A seraph marched toward
him, dust staining his armor and wings, a helmet hiding his head. His sunburst
eyes flared through the eyeholes, and he lashed his whip of fire.

"Back to
work!"

Vale grunted as the
whip stung his arm. But the pain of that wound was nothing compared to his
fear.

He has Elory.

Memories flashed before
Vale's eyes: Elory as a babe, born in their hut, an innocent child who had
never asked to come into this world. Elory as a toddler, fitted with a yoke,
sent to the bitumen mines. Elory coming of age, turning eighteen, a young woman
who would never know freedom, who would always know nothing but the lash, the
tar, the old prayers of a fallen land.

And Elory above him,
only moments ago, crying out to him, taken to the only place in Saraph worse
than the bitumen pits.

The seraph master
growled, lowered his whip, and raised his lance above Vale. "Gods damn it,
maggot, I'm going to spill your guts."

"Wait."

Vale stared at the
seraph, refusing to flinch even as the lance thrust forward, stopping only
inches from his belly.

"You dare talk
back?" The seraph cracked his whip in one hand and thrust the lance
closer. Vale was tall for a slave, almost six feet, a rare height among the
malnourished, weary Vir Requis, yet this seraph soared a foot taller. The tip
of the deity's lance bit into Vale's side, scraping a red line beneath his
ribs.

I have to do this.
He
forced in a deep, dusty breath.
I have to save her. Stars of Requiem, I have
to stop this.

"I want to serve
Ishtafel!" Vale said, letting his rage fill his voice, twisting it into
something he hoped sounded like religious zeal. His voice sounded too loud to
him, torn with pain, a crazed voice. "I want to serve the golden god of
Saraph!"

The seraph grunted and
lashed his whip. The throng drove into Vale's side. "Worship him by
digging limestone. Your bricks will form a temple to him. A temple you'll never
worship at." The seraph barked a laugh. "You can pray to him as you
cut into the stone."

Vale raised his chin,
ignoring the agony of his wounds. "My mother is a digger. She digs for
bitumen as a dragon. The claws in our family are sharp. I would serve Ishtafel
as a dragon in the City of Kings, flying above the scaffolds of his rising
temples, holding the stones in my claws." He forced himself to stare into
the seraph's burning eyes. "I spent the past ten years cutting bricks
here. Now let me bear those bricks into the sky."

His breath shook in his
lungs, but he refused to look away.