Requiem's Song (Book 1) (33 page)

Her footsteps were slow. Blood
trailed behind her. She stepped out of the cave into a canyon of
flame and blood, carrying Zerra's severed head.

"Goldtusk!" she
shouted.

She stood upon bloodied
boulders. The dead lay around and beneath her. Arms thrust out from
the debris, and gore painted the canyon walls. One rider lay
whimpering, his organs dangling from his sliced belly. Dozens of rocs
still flew above, and at least two dragons still lived. Maev writhed
on a pile of boulders, blowing her last sparks onto a roc. Tanin lay
slumped, lashing his claws, holding back a beast; arrows pierced his
flesh. Laira had never seen these two dragons, but she knew them from
Jeid's stories—his children returned to battle. She did not see the
others.

"Goldtusk!" Laira
shouted. She raised the severed head above her. "Goldtusk, hear
me! I am Laira Seran. I was one of you. I carry the head of Zerra,
your chieftain."

The rocs shrieked. All eyes
turned toward her. The battle died down as they stared. Hunters
hissed and tugged their reins, halting the rocs. The birds hovered,
blasting Laira with foul air, billowing her hair.

"I am a child of Goldtusk!"
Laira cried, voice hoarse. "I slew the chieftain. By the law of
our people, I lead this tribe now. I am chieftain! I am Laira of
Goldtusk, a worshiper of Ka'altei. I command you—land, dismount your
rocs, and kneel before your mistress."

For long moments—the ages of
the stars and the world, the rise and fall of kingdoms, the endless
mourning in her heart—they merely hovered, staring. She stared back.
She knew how she looked—a scrawny thing, broken, scarred, covered in
blood. A wisp of a person, a hint of who she could have been.

But
this is who I am,
she thought.
This
is me. These years of pain, this fear, this broken body—they made me
who I am. This person was hurt. And this person is strong.

She raised the head higher,
staring, silent. All others fell silent too. She could hear the wind
in the trees and the crackle of fire.

It was one rider—a gruff old
man named Sha'al, a chunk of mammoth tusk still embedded in his chest
from an old hunt—who landed his roc first. He dismounted, gave Laira
a hard look, and then knelt before her.

A second rider joined him, a
young man who had once tossed Laira a few nuts on a cold winter
night. He knelt before her, sword lowered.

"Chieftain," he said.

A third rider joined him, then a
fourth. Soon dozens of rocs landed in the canyon, cawing nervously.
Their riders covered the boulders, kneeling before her, heads
lowered.

"Chieftain.

"Chieftain Laira."

"Daughter of Ka'altei."

They spread across the canyon,
kneeling in a great wave. Laira stood, staring upon them—her people.
She looked to her side where Maev and Tanin struggled to their
feet—her new family.

"Our war ends now,"
Laira said softly. She lowered the severed head. "Goldtusk and
Requiem will forge peace. We—"

A grunt rose ahead, followed by
a strangled cry.

Laira raised her eyes and her
heart nearly stopped.

"No," she whispered.

Jeid stumbled forward across the
boulders, back in human form. A young man—not a rider of Goldtusk
but a foreigner in the robes of Eteer—walked behind, holding a blade
to Jeid's throat.

 
 
SENA

He shoved the gruff, bearded man
forward, holding a knife to his throat. Everyone stared at him.
Everyone judged him. Everyone thought him a villain. Sena trembled
and felt tears stream down his cheeks, and he pushed the knife a
hair's width closer.

"Stand back!" he
shouted. "Stand back or I slit his throat!"

This battle, like all of this
autumn, had been a feverish dream. For so long Sena had languished
in Aerhein Tower, chained, starving, mad with his thoughts, the
demons flying outside his window to torment him. Since fleeing that
place, he had found no solace.

They
said the north would be safe,
Sena thought, the blade trembling in his hand.
They
said this would be a home.

But here too people hunted his
kind. Here great vultures, each larger than ten demons, slew dragons.

"I can't live like this,"
Sena whispered, voice shuddering, as they stared at him. "I'm a
prince. I'm a prince!" His tears flowed. "I can't live in
the wilderness, hiding in caves, hunted, hurt. Look. Look at the
blood. Oh Taal . . ."

The dead spread around him. He
saw scattered limbs blackened with fire, white bones thrusting from
the torn flesh. A severed head lay before him. Globs of flesh and
puddles of blood lay everywhere. A dragon claw had disemboweled a
roc, and pink entrails spilled across the ground, wet and stinking.

A home? This was a morgue. This
was a nightmare.

The burly, bearded man grunted
in his grip. Sena held the brute tightly, pushing his blade closer
against the skin.

"Be still!" Sena said.
"Be silent! I will cut you."

Upon the boulders, Maev leaped
up and glared. "Sena! You pathetic little snake. You foul piece
of pig shite. I saved your backside from that tower. You hold my
father now!" She hopped across a boulder, moving closer. "Drop
your knife or I'll smash your head against the canyon wall."

"You will stand back!"
Sena said, staring back at her. Tears burned in his eyes, and his
legs trembled. He pushed the blade a little deeper, nicking the man's
skin, and Maev froze. Blood dripped down Jeid's neck. "Stand
back, Maev, or your father dies."

Ahead, a short young woman was
holding a severed head. She had been shouting something earlier.
Crouched in the forest among the dead, Sena had been unable to make
out her words. The woman looked about his age, maybe older, but
haggard and small, frail as if after a long illness. Her black hair
was cut short, and her mouth was slanted, her chin thrust to the
side. She stared at him, tilted her head, and approached slowly.

"Why do you do this?"
she said. Her voice was vaguely slurred, perhaps due to her crooked
jaw.

Sena glared at her, clutching
Jeid. "I am a prince of Eteer! I don't belong here. I can't live
in this place. I have to go home." A sob fled his throat. "If
I kill a weredragon, my father will forgive me. If I bring him this
man's body, his demons will sniff the weredragon curse. They will
know I killed one. And my father, the king, will forgive my own
curse. He will let me return to my palace. Maybe not as heir, but a
prince again." His chest shook and he cursed himself for
weeping. "I want to go home. I just want to go home. Oh Taal . .
."

The young woman with the short,
black hair stepped closer to him. She raised her emptied palms in a
gesture of peace.

"You are . . . the Prince
of Eteer?" Her voice was soft, and she tilted her head. "You
are Sena Seran, son of Raem."

He nodded, peering around Jeid's
shoulder, keeping the knife in place. The bearded man was silent save
for his gruff breath.

"And who are you?"
Sena demanded. "Another one of this man's daughters who wants to
crack my head?"

The young woman shook her head,
and a tear streamed down her cheek. "My name is Laira."

Sena snorted. "I had a
sister named Laira once. It's a name of Eteer, not this forsaken
place. She was exiled years ago and—"

He froze.

Laira stared at him, eyes soft,
and moved closer. She reached out her hands. "It's me, Sena,"
she whispered, tears falling. "It's me. Your sister. I'm here."

Sena lowered his head and closed
his eyes. Sobs wracked his body.

My
sister . . .

"Oh Taal. Oh righteous god
of purity. What have they done to you, sister?" He looked at her
through his tears. "We have to go home. Both of us. We have to
kill the others so Father forgives us. I want to go home."

Laira smiled tremulously. She
stepped across the boulders toward him, reached out, and gently
touched his arm.

"We are home, brother. We
are home."

A
clank
sounded below, and Sena realized he had dropped his knife. With a
grunt, the bearded man moved aside, and somehow Sena was embracing
his sister, crying into her hair. She was so short—the top of her
head barely reached his shoulders—and he held her slim body, nearly
crushing her.

"I'm sorry," he
whispered. "Laira, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She looked up at him, smiling,
tears spiking her lashes. She touched his cheek. "Hello again,
dear brother. After so many years, hello again. I love you."

He embraced her tightly and they
stood for a long time, holding each other upon the boulder, a sea of
blood around them.

 
 
JEID

Another Vir Requis had joined
them. His twin brother was dead. The Goldtusk tribe was Laira's to
command. The world shook around Jeid, but he no longer cared.

He cared for only one thing now.

Back in dragon form, he dug
through the rubble, tossing boulders aside. His eyes burned. He
worked in a fury, unearthing dead tribesmen, a crushed roc, and
puddles of blood. Boulders rolled around him.

"Help me!" he said.
"Tanin, Maev!"

His children rushed forth,
shifted into dragons, and dug with him. Their eyes were narrowed,
their mouths shut tight. They were thinking the same thought as him,
Jeid knew.

Eranor was missing.

Jeid ground his teeth. Last he'd
seen his father, the elderly druid had been blowing fire from the
pantry, the rough cave that was now buried under rubble. With a
grunt, Jeid grabbed a great boulder—it was as large as a man. Tanin
and Maev had to help, shoving against it, before it creaked and
crashed down.

The entrance to the pantry, once
a narrow cave barely large enough for a man to crawl into, lay
shattered. Jeid tugged back stones, widening the opening, revealing
the shadowy chamber.

"Father!" he called.
No answer came.

His arms shook as Jeid shifted
back into human form. He raced into the cave and felt his heart
shatter.

Eranor lay in the cavern, in
human form again, rubble upon him. The ceiling had collapsed, and a
boulder buried the old man's legs. Blood stained his long, once-white
beard.

"Father!"

Jeid rushed forward and knelt by
the old druid. Eranor was still alive, his breath ragged. The old man
managed to focus his eyes on Jeid and clasp his hand.

"My son . . ." His
voice was a mere whisper.

Maev and Tanin rushed into the
cave too and knelt by their grandfather. Tears filled their eyes.

"Tell me what to do."
Jeid clutched his father's hand. "Tell me how to heal you."

Eranor smiled—an almost wistful
smile. "This body cannot be healed. Do not weep for me. I am old
and I've lived longer than most. I lived to see Requiem rise."
He closed his eyes. "In my mind I can see it—a great kingdom of
dragons. You will lead them, Jeid. Lead them to hope, to light."

"No." Jeid shook his
head. "No, Father. You will lead us. Don't leave. Now is not
your time."

"I fly now to the stars, my
son." Eranor's eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Tanin. Maev.
Come closer. Be with me."

They all crowded around him,
holding on to the old man, tears in their eyes.

Eranor gave a last smile. "I
fly now to the Draco constellation. I fly to those we lost. I—"

His eyes closed.

His breath died.

Jeid lowered his head, pulled
his father to his chest, and held him close for a long time.

The last leaves of autumn
scuttled across the hills, and the first snow began to fall, when
Jeid buried his father. Wind fluttered his fur cloak as he stood
above the grave. A third boulder rose here, a third tombstone coated
in moss. By it lay the two other graves—the young Vir Requis who had
lost his leg, a stranger and yet one of their family, and an older
grave overrun with ivy, the grave of his daughter. Of Requiem.

"I don't know how many more
will die for our tribe," Jeid said, throat tight. He clenched
his fists at his sides. "But I will fight on."

He looked at the others who
stood around him, faces pale, eyes cold. His people. His tribe. The
ones he loved.

Maev had refused a cloak of fur.
She stood in a simple tunic, her arms bare, displaying her coiling
dragon tattoos. Snow frosted her golden hair. No tears filled her
eyes, and as always, her bottom lip was thrust out in defiance. As
always, bruises and scratches covered her. Yet Jeid knew that beneath
that stony exterior lay pain, love, and hope. The young woman stared
down at the grave, chin raised, a well of tears hiding behind stone
walls.

Tanin stood at her side, his
eyes red, snow filling his shock of brown hair. The tall young man
wrapped his fur cloak more tightly around himself. His lips whispered
silent prayers or perhaps goodbyes. The juggler turned warrior—now a
man grieving.

I
never wanted this life for you, my children,
Jeid thought.
I
wanted you to grow up in safety, a true roof over your heads, a life
without fear, without pain.

Perhaps
this day he grieved for his children—for their life of exile and
bloodshed—as much as for his fallen father.

The new members of his tribe
stood here too. Sena—slender, his cheeks soft—stood wrapped in a
cloak, pale with frost. He stared down at the grave, silent,
thoughtful. Laira stood at his side, holding his hand.

You
too are my family now,
Jeid thought, looking upon them.
I
will fight for all of you.

He knelt and placed a single
birch leaf upon the grave, securing it with a stone. His father had
always loved birches, and it was the only gift Jeid had to give. The
others followed, one by one, placing down their own leaves and
stones. Snow dusted the gifts.