Requiem's Song (Book 1) (26 page)

The
deformed bat landed with a hiss, her bones creaking, her eyes
weeping. When Raem dismounted, the pathetic creature—perhaps still
clinging to some memories of her old, human self—curled up into a
ball of skin and jutting bones.

Raem
stood upon the hill below the totem pole. As pitiful as his mount
was, he was glorious. He wore armor of polished bronze, and a jeweled
helm covered his head. A shield bright as the sun hung upon his arm.

The
tribesmen—clad in muddy furs, their jewelry mere beads of
clay—gasped at Raem's splendor. A few covered their eyes and
whispered prayers. Many knelt and began to chant.

"Raem!
Raem! A god of metal!"

Several
rocs gathered around, still tethered to posts, and hissed and clacked
their beaks. Their talons tore up soil, and their yellow eyes blazed,
and wind shrieked into their nostrils. The beasts were larger than
his human bat—they dwarfed any one of his demons. The malformed
creature, sensing the danger, shrieked and bared her teeth. Her human
face—bloated and pale—twisted in a mix of fear and hatred.

My
demons are small,
Raem
thought, stroking the creature. Only human flesh could make demons
grow as large as dragons, a price Raem was not willing to pay. He
would not feed healthy humans to his demons, for all human life was a
gift of Taal—even these barbarians. With his unholy swarm, Raem
could perhaps root out the weredragons hiding in Eteer—frightened,
weak creatures who lurked in shadows, daring not shift. But to find
Laira . . . to find the escarpment where the wild, northern dragons
flew . . .

Looking
upon the rocs, Raem allowed himself a thin smile.

These
ones will kill dragons for me.

"Who
leads you?" Raem shouted, an idol of metal, standing above the
kneeling tribesmen. "Bring your leader to me."

The
tribesmen below parted. A tall man came limping up the hill, clad in
buffalo hides. Here was the chieftain. He wore necklaces of true
gold, and a bronze sword hung at his side—not a curved sword like
those in Eteer, but a wide, leaf-shaped blade the length of asuch
metal man's forearm. Half the chieftain's head was burnt away—the
ear gone, the eye peering from scars. The wound stretched down his
arm and leg.

Dragonfire,
Raem knew.
Good.

"Are
you the one they speak of?" Raem called down to him. "Zerra
of Goldtusk?"

The
chieftain reached him. The two leaders stared at each other, only a
foot apart. While Raem was clean-shaven and bald, a meticulous man,
his armor priceless and gleaming, the other—Zerra—was a brute of
hair, fur, and grime.

He
is a barbarian,
Raem
thought,
but he will
serve me well.

"Who
are you, man of metal?" Zerra said. Half his mouth faded into
scars, and his teeth were yellow.

"A
king," said Raem. "A soldier. A bringer of gifts."

He
pulled the second sack, the larger one, off his demonic bat. It
clanked onto the hill, opening up to spill its treasures. Helmets,
shields, and bronze daggers clattered into the grass.

The
tribesmen gasped. Raem smiled thinly. He saw but a single bronze
weapon here; a cache of this much metal would be priceless to this
tribe.

Zerra
looked down at the treasure, then back at Raem. His eyes narrowed.
"Do you style yourself a god?"

Raem
smiled thinly. "To you I am. And I will bring you more metal.
Spearheads. Arrowheads. Swords. Vases and chalices and a throne to
sit on. I will make you a king in the north."

The
chieftain lifted a bronze helmet, sniffed at it, and tossed it aside.
He spat. "I am Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk. I
take no gifts from gods or men. I am no beggar." He drew the
bronze sword from his belt. "I take my metal with blood. I slew
the warrior who wielded this sword. I did not take it as a gift."

Raem
raised an eyebrow. "That's not what I hear. They say along the
river that Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk, was once a
humble villager living in a clay hut. They say his brother, a
blacksmith, forged this sword for him—a gift of love, not a trophy
of battle. They say this brother is a weredragon, that he leads a
clan of weredragons, and they say, Zerra . . . they say you fear
him."

Half
of Zerra's face, leathery and stubbly, flushed a deep crimson. The
other half, a ruin of scars, twitched. He raised his sword and his
fist trembled.

"I
do not ask you to accept these gifts without a fight, chieftain,"
Raem said calmly. "But I am not your enemy. It is not me you
should fight."

Zerra
stared into Raem's eyes, his gaze judging, dangerous, seeking.
Finally he grunted.

"Follow,"
the chieftain said and began walking downhill.

They
approached his tent. The buffalo hides were painted with scenes of
hunters and bison. When they stepped inside, Raem found lion pelts
upon the ground, a crackling fire in the center, and statuettes of
voluptuous women—their hips wide, their breasts hanging low—carved
of stone. A living woman lay upon a rug, not as luscious but
attractive enough, her breasts painted with blue rings, her thighs
red with bite marks. Zerra sent her fleeing the tent with a kick.

"You
speak dangerous words, stranger," said Zerra. He limped toward
the campfire, pulled out a burning stick, and extinguished it inside
his burnt hand, perhaps an attempt to impress his guest. He waved the
smoking branch. "Why are you here?"

Raem
lifted one of the female figurines. He caressed the stone form,
remembering his wife. It had been years since he'd seen Anai, since
he had caressed her body like this. He had caught his wife shifting,
and she had fled him to these northern lands, to this very tribe, her
reptile spawn Laira with her.

"Two
weredragons traveled with you," Raem said. "A woman named
Anai. A child named Laira. The woman was my wife, the child my
daughter."

Zerra
barked a laugh, a horrible sound. "I bedded them both. Here in
this tent. The child was particularly willing. Thrust right into her,
nearly broke her. The poor thing screamed."

Raem
placed down the statuette and frowned. The chieftain stared at him,
mocking, caressing his sword.

He's
goading me,
Raem
thought, refusing to take the bait.

"If
you catch Laira again," Raem said, "you may bed her as much
as you please, so long as you give her to me once she's worn out.
Then she would be mine to torment."

The
chieftain smirked and tossed another branch into the fire. "Your
wife is dead. I killed her myself. The maggot child escaped."

Raem
raised an eyebrow. "And you are such a mighty warrior that you
cannot capture her? The whole north is speaking of this . . .
escarpment
.
Of this canyon in the stone, a network of caves of some sort. They
say it's a fortress." Raem snorted. "And they say you fear
to fly there."

Zerra
spun toward him, enraged. He drew another flaming branch and waved
it. "I fear nothing! Nothing, metal man. The rocs refuse to fly
there; the birds are cowardly. You claim to be some king? Fly there
yourself. Fly upon that malformed demon of yours. The escarpment is
swarming with the reptiles."

"My
bat is swift but small, barely larger than a mule. Your rocs are
larger than dragons. Do you want more treasures of bronze? Then you
will get your rocs to fly." Raem clutched the man's shoulder and
sneered. "I will make you a king in the north, but first you
will slay dragons for me."

Zerra
stood very still, staring, the burning branch still clutched in his
hand. The flames were licking his wrist, but he would not drop the
stick.

"Two
hundred spears tipped with bronze," the chieftain said. "Two
hundred swords and ten thousand arrows. A breastplate and helm for
every warrior in my army, chalices for them all to drink from, and
plates inlaid with jewels. And you will send me three smiths and a
hundred miners, so that we may forge the metal on our own. That is my
price to you. Promise me these things, and I will slay the dragons
for you, all but Laira. She will be mine to break, then yours to
keep."

The
man is greedy,
Raem
thought.
The man is
cruel. This is exactly the man I need.

He
nodded. "They will be yours." He turned to leave, walked
toward the tent door, then froze and looked over his shoulder. "Is
it true, then? That your brother is a weredragon?"

The
chieftain grinned horribly, displaying his rotting teeth. "Twin
brother. I will kill him last . . . and slowest."

Raem
turned to leave again. This time Zerra's words stopped him.

"And
is what I hear true as well?" the chieftain called out. "That
your own son, your heir and prince, is one of the diseased
creatures?"

Raem's
throat tightened. He clenched his jaw. He looked back at the
chieftain and found the man smirking.

"Concern
yourself with my daughter, not my son, barbarian. He is mine to deal
with; she will be yours."

With
that, Raem stepped outside the tent, stood in the wind and mist, and
felt the old rage, fear, and sickness rise inside him. He craved. He
needed the release.

He
needed to become the reptile.

The
urge nearly blinding him, he approached his demon. He mounted the
creature, spurred her flanks, and soared into the sky. As he left the
tribe far below, he realized he was digging his fingernails into his
palms. The blood dripped down his arms and Raem narrowed his eyes and
prayed to his god.

 
 
TANIN

Tanin
walked through the city of stone, seeing demons everywhere.

"By
the stars, Tanin," Maev whispered, walking beside him. His
gruff, golden-haired sister clutched her bronze sword under her fur
cloak. "This place is as haunted as your undergarments."
She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. "Smells as bad too."

Tanin
scowled. "This is no time for your jokes. Keep both eyes wide
open. We're looking for Vir Requis."

She
thrust out her bottom lip, looking around her. "So are about a
thousand demons."

The
creatures flew above, cackling and beating insect wings. They laughed
upon palm trees and domed roofs. They ran through the streets,
chasing women, pawing and groping and tearing off garments. Some
creatures were small, no larger than cats, scuttling little things on
crab legs. Others were as large as horses—some scaled, some bloated,
some creatures of bones and horns, others balls of slime.

"Dragons,
we seek dragons!" they chanted.

The
city must have once been beautiful, Tanin thought—a place of marvel
such as he'd never seen. Cobbled roads stretched between houses—real
houses of stone, several stories tall and topped with domes, not
simple clay huts like men built across the sea. Palm trees, fig
trees, and flowers grew along the streets, and bronze statues stood
in city squares, shaped as winged bulls. Far ahead, past a hundred
streets and countless homes, rose a palace, a building that Tanin
knew nobody in the north would believe could exist. Columns lined its
walls, blue and gold, and lush gardens grew on its roof.

Whoever
had built this city had created a wonder, but today this was a place
of rot. Demon drool covered the cobblestones and blood stained the
walls. Several corpses lay strewn across the street, torn apart.
Demons were feasting upon the entrails.

"Dragons,
we seek dragons!" they chanted, sniffing, moving from street to
street. They spoke in many tongues; Tanin could understand his own
language and make out several others.

"I
guess flying is out of the question," Tanin muttered.

Maev
grabbed his arm and pointed. "Look, past that dome! A tower. The
stories say the prince is kept in a tower. Let's grab the boy and get
out of this place." She walked by a dead monkey—demon teeth
marks could be seen upon it—and shivered. "I want to go home."

Tanin
grinned bitterly. "What happened to Maev the Brave, the girl who
spent years boasting of being an explorer, an adventurer, a heroine?"

She
gave him a withering glare. "Say another word and that girl will
plant her foot so deep up your backside, you'll be able to bite her
toes." She tugged him along. "Now come on, you stupid lump
of a brother."

They
kept walking, moving down a cobbled road lined with wineshops. Soon
they reached a palisade of columns, each rising taller than oaks.
Their capitals were shaped as silver men, their heads lowered, their
arms hanging at their sides, the palms facing outward. Beyond the
columns spread a wide boulevard, its flagstones smooth and polished.
A procession was moving down the road. Priests walked at its lead,
clad in white, swinging pots of incense. One priest held a clay
tablet engraved with cuneiform writing; he sang out the words. Behind
them moved seven bulls, tugging a great chariot of wood and metal.
Upon the chariot rose a great statue of the same slender, silver man,
his palms open, his head lowered.

"Taal!"
chanted city folk, kneeling on the roadside as the procession passed
by. "Taal!"

The
demons swarmed above, hissing with hatred, sneering, spitting. Yet
they dared not approach the procession, and when the smoke of the
incense wafted near them, they fled with shrieks.

"This
city's in the middle of a bloody war," Maev said, peering from
behind a column. "Taal must be their god, the slender silver
man."

"And
the demons aren't too fond of him." Tanin winced to see one of
the creatures scuttle by, dripping rot. The procession was moving
directly ahead now; the demons fled like water from the prow of an
advancing ship.

Maev
seemed unusually subdued. She spoke softly. "These demons are
hunting dragons. You heard them. There might be many more Vir Requis
in this city, not just the prince. I think these demons are Eteer's
bloodhounds; hunters." She shook her head. "By the stars,
Tanin. What have we found here?"