EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (198 page)

He held her for long moments, then rose to his feet. He looked around him at the dead, hundreds of them youths from his home.

“We will bury them,” he said. “We will bury them with honor—every one.”

He shifted into a dragon, filled his wings with air, and flew toward the clock tower.

Valien waited upon the roof, a silver dragon coated in snow, his left horn chipped away. The leader of the Resistance was staring north, his breath frosting. Rune landed beside him, and the two dragons—one burly and silver, the other slim and black—stared north together, silent.

Finally Valien spoke.

“Rune,” he said in his deep, raspy voice. “Rune, listen to me.”

Rune wanted to speak, but did not trust his voice to remain steady. He nodded silently.

“Rune,” said Valien, “what we’ve begun cannot end here. We cannot let these deaths be in vain. You hurt. You rage. You know loss.” He turned to stare at Rune, his eyes burning. “Do not let this be for nothing.”

Fire filled Rune’s mouth. He wanted to burn the old dragon, to rage, to break down the tower, to fly into the forests and hide forever in their depths.

“They’re all dead,” he said. “All the youths of my home. My best friend lived, but she serves the red spiral. What do I fight for now, Valien?”

The silver dragon snarled. Fire flared between his teeth.

“You fight for Requiem!” he hissed. “You fight for your father. You fight for your friends who lie dead below—yes, even if they fought for the enemy. We failed here in this fort, but we will fight on.” That raspy voice shook now, and the dragon’s claws gripped the tower so tightly they chipped the stone. “We will send word to every corner of the empire. We will drop scrolls upon every town and village. We will let them know: Relesar Aeternum has returned, and he rules the south, and he is king. Requiem will be freed.”

Rune shook his head. “A king? Valien, my hands are stained in blood. How can I ever hope to rule Requiem?”

The silver dragon’s rage seeped away. The smoke from his nostrils died. He sighed, scales clanking, and moved closer to Rune.

“Have you ever seen the capital?” he asked, voice soft.

Rune shook his head.

Valien took a deep breath that rippled his scales. He closed his eyes and a smile revealed his fangs.

“It’s not much to look at now,” the silver dragon said. “Now it’s all banners of the red spiral, and marching soldiers, and towers of obsidian, and statues of Frey.” Valien snorted. “Ha! But back then, Rune... back in the days of your father... you should have seen it! Whenever we’d fly toward the city, the guards would greet us from the walls, blowing silver trumpets. When we’d march through the streets, children would throw flowers at us, and people would smile. So many flowers, wine, pretty women...” Valien opened his eyes and winked. “You’d have liked that part, I think.”

Rune lowered his head. “I’ve never seen a city like that.”

“You will,” Valien said. “You will, Rune. That is why we fight. Not for strength, glory, or any of that rubbish Frey spews. We fight for flowers, for wine, and for silver trumpets upon white walls.”

“And for pretty women?” Rune asked.

Valien snorted a laugh; Rune did not think he’d ever heard him laugh before.

“Especially for pretty women,” he answered. He nudged Rune with his wing. “Come on, Rune. Let’s fly back to Kaelyn. The dead wait below, and we will bury them. And we won’t forget the living. You are king of the south now. You have returned.” Valien’s eyes gleamed. “You will see the capital. I vow this to you. We will fly toward the walls of Nova Vita. Silver trumpets will call you home.”

They took flight and Kaelyn joined them. They soared high above the fortress, three dragons in the snow, and roared their song.

Rune looked north. Beyond forest and mountain lay the capital, too distant to see. The throne of Requiem awaited him there; so did the emperor.

“And you wait there too, Tilla,” he whispered.

The snow fell and Rune blew his fire. The flaming pillar rose, a pyre for the dead, a beacon for the living... and a light for a lost friend.

The story continues in… A BIRTHRIGHT OF BLOOD: The Dragon War, Book Two

Afterword

D
ANIEL
A
RENSON
IS
A
BESTSELLING
author of epic fantasy.

Four of his trilogies--Dawn of Dragons, Song of Dragons, Dragonlore, and The Dragon War--are set in Requiem, a world where humans can turn into dragons. He's also the author of Moth, a series about a world torn in two--its one half always in sunlight, the other always dark. Six of Daniel's books have hit Amazon's overall Top 100 bestsellers list; one has hit the Top 20. In total, his books have sold over 400,000 copies.

Raised on Dungeons & Dragons, The Lord of the Rings, and scratchy Star Wars VHS tapes, Daniel still consumes--and tries to contribute to--geek culture.

JOIN THE DRAGONS OF DARKNESS! The Dragons of Darkness is an army of Requiem and Moth fans across the world. Join our ranks:

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The Dragon War trilogy:

Book 1: A Legacy of Light

Book 2: A Birthright of Blood

Book 3: A Memory of Fire

J
ADE
: A B
OOK
OF
D
EACON
S
IDEQUEST

Joseph R. Lallo

Chapter I

A
MAN
LAID
ON
THE
forest floor, weak, air dragging in and out of his lungs in fading gasps. Already his vision was growing dim. He was beyond help now. The end was near.

A dying mind must choose its thoughts carefully. They are too precious to be squandered.

He thought of his family--his wife, his brothers, his parents, each and every one of them waiting on the other side. He would be with them again soon. He thought of how little he was leaving behind. A tiny home, a failure of a shop, and an indifferent town. He would not miss them. Still a young man, he thought of the years of life that he was losing. Half of a lifetime still lay before him. He would not miss that, either. The world he knew was a bleak one. Disease, hunger, and poverty were everywhere. What he felt most was relief that he would endure it no more.

Most impressively, not once did his final thoughts touch upon the beast standing over him. Blood pooled around its mighty claws. A cold rain began to pound upon its green scales. Its reptilian head towered above, smoky breath rushing out between stout daggers of teeth. The dragon watched life slip away, just as it had countless times before. Then, in a few bounding strides, it was gone.

“All out! Everybody out!” cried a scraggly man, as he hammered at a crude bell.

Far to the southeast, the town of Isintist was a small one, but dense with people. They poured from the houses as quickly as they could. It was the alarm bell, and the smell of smoke left little doubt as to the reason. A fire was raging in a large house toward the edge of town, the site of the Rinton family’s home and farm. Every able body rushed to the scene. It would be nice to say that each had moved so quickly out of a sense of duty, but the truth was far less heroic. The village--indeed, the entire region--was in the midst of a terrible drought. The grass and trees were dry as tinder. Were the fire to spread, it would quickly be out of control and their own homes would be next. Best, then, to do what could be done to stop it before that happened.

The burning home was already surrounded by onlookers, but there was little anyone could do. The whole of the lower floor was utterly engulfed. Even if a would-be hero were to brave the burning doorway, there was no hope of rescuing anyone inside. With the wells all but dry, neither was there any hope to douse the flames. And so the town was left to helplessly watch as flames worked their way up to the attic. The intensity of the inferno devoured the supports of the building, causing charred lower walls to creak and splinter under what little remained untouched above.

Finally, in a rush of embers and debris, the foremost section of the attic tumbled forward. An instant before it struck the ground, a form tumbled from its window, colliding viciously with the ground and rolling toward the crowd. The rest of the house, finally having reached its breaking point, collapsed. A scalding hot rush of air erupted from it, filling the surrounding field with smoke, ash, and splintered wood. The assembled townsfolk scattered to beat out the dozens of smaller fires started by the flying embers--but, for some, the sound of cries of anguish and pain drew their attention to the ground in front of the smoldering remains of the attic loft.

There, just beyond the mound of broken and shattered wood, was a little girl, not more than six years old. The collapse had spared her, and though the fall from the window and the choking smoke hadn’t done her any good, she was alive, the only survivor of the terrible disaster.

When the flames died away, there were questions to be answered. In an ideal world, there would have been questions about the nature of the disaster. How did the fire start? Why was the whole of the family inside during the day? How could the fire have spread so quickly that not a single one of the five Rinton family members could reach a door?

Alas, this was a simple time, and curiosity was hardly a common virtue. The fire was never presumed to be anything more than a terrible tragedy. Thus, the only questions left to be answered were what to do with the land, and what to do with the girl. In a community so small and so remote, there was seldom any need for laws more complex than an eye for an eye, so the matter was one with no clear resolution. To address it, a meeting of the town leaders was called. The most influential people in town, and anyone else with any interest, gathered in the church for the informal meeting. When all were ready, it was called to order.

“Right, so, by now we all heard the terrible news about the Rintons,” announced an old man to a general murmur of acknowledgment.

The old man’s name was Delnick, and he was the unofficial leader of the town largely because he’d managed to stay alive for so long. A lifetime in the sun had made him look as though he’d been stitched together from tanned cowhide, but his mind still seemed sharp, and since no one else wanted the job, no one challenged his authority.

“So what are we going to do about all that land?” asked a man in the rear of the room.

The man turned out to be a fellow named Drudder. He was known around town primarily for his bitter attitude and ruinous gambling habit.

“Little Jade survived the fire, so the land belongs to her,” Delnick proclaimed.

“What!? She can’t tend to that land! That land’ll be wasted if you give it to her!” He objected.

“Look, the girl gets the land. We ain’t discussing it. Of course she can’t tend to it! She’s not even six yet. We need to find her a place to live,” said Delnick. “Now, who can look after her until we can find a family member to take her?”

There was a low murmur again, but no volunteers. The drought had hit the village hard. Most had difficulty turning up enough food and water for their own families. Supporting another was more than any of the residents could handle.

“I’ll take her,” said Drudder. “I got three boys already, what’s one more? And, naturally I’ll work the land on her behalf.”

Delnick sat in silent consideration for a few moments. No one was foolish enough to believe that Drudder had the girl’s best interests at heart. He just wanted the Rinton land, which was some of the most fertile in the region. That didn’t change the fact that no one else had offered, and the girl needed a home.

“All right, Drudder. Watch the girl and the land is yours until we find a next of kin,” he said.

A little girl, eyes still red from smoke and tears, was led by her hand to her new guardian.

“Th-thank you, Mr. Dru--” she began meekly.

“Gale! Take the Rinton girl back home and set her up in the boys’ room. I’ve got to head over to the land and make sure the fire didn’t do anything to the fence,” Drudder cried to his weary-looking wife.

And so Jade’s new life began. By day, she walked past the charred remains of her former home to work the land that had belonged to her parents. She pulled weeds, planted seeds, and did anything else her new guardian asked of her. She did it well, too. The land she worked sprouted twice as many green shoots as that worked by the others. Work continued until the sun was slipping from the sky. By night, she sat in a sad daze in the corner of a room crowded with three boys at least twice her age.